


... Love Me?

by vienn_peridot



Series: Syngnath Chronicles [4]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: AU: Syngnath, AU: Wing Lives, Alien Biology, Alien Culture, Alien Gender/Sexuality, Alien Sex, Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Bathing/Washing, Body Image, Body Worship, Courtship, Cuddling & Snuggling, Depression, Developing Relationship, Energy Field Sexual Interfacing, Fluff, Forced Bonding, Graphic Description, Guilt, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Incubator!Ratchet, Infertility, Kink Meme, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Multi, Nightmares, Nuptial Gifts, Ovaria!Drift, Ovaria!Wing, Oviposition, Polyamory, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Smut, Spark Bond, Spark Sex, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Suicidal Thoughts, Tactile Sexual Interfacing, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-22
Updated: 2016-09-13
Packaged: 2018-03-19 01:36:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 67,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3591432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vienn_peridot/pseuds/vienn_peridot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Attempted fill for kinkmeme prompt (http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/13205.html?thread=14761365#t14761365) smashed into a Syngnath AU with an Ovaria!Wing .</p><p>Prompter requested:<br/>Drift and Wing are already a couple. They meet Ratchet and after recognising him as the mech who saved Drift. They decide to say thankyou, because if Ratchet hadn't saved Drift then they would never have met.<br/>They start hanging around Ratchet and realise that he is an angry, broken thing. He's been in a lot of wars - he keeps seeing his friends and patients die and he can't do anything to save most of them. The wars have also caused him to kill, which has seriously fragged up his Medic coding. He has resorted to self-harm to cope with this.<br/>Drift and WIng decide to help him out (which Ratchet resists) and sometime during this they decide that they want Ratchet as their third, so they start courting him. Ratchet is very confused and suspicious, he can't figure out why these two pretty mechs would have anything to do with him.<br/>Body Worship and Cuddle Piles would be a massive bonus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chushingura

**Author's Note:**

> The initial outline for this fic comes to 41 chapters.  
>  _Fuck me running._  
>  Start placing your bets on how many years it's gonna take me to finish this monster.
> 
> 'Astrogation' is due homage to the late, great Anne McCaffrey who introduced me to the world of Sci-Fi.

# One

“This is _stupid_.” Drift groused, kicking his feet up on the flight console and slumping down in his chair. “Why can’t those fragging swords just TELL us where we’re supposed to go?”

Wing deliberately didn’t acknowledge the other Ovaria’s sulk, ignoring the angry glare Drift was giving the vast void of space beyond the forward viewport and applying himself to the astrogation display.

“I think this is a case of the journey being as important as the destination,” Wing sounded far calmer than he felt. “At least, that was the impression I got.”

Drift made a rude noise, folding his hands behind his head. He kept his EM Field close to his frame and the bond between their Sparks was muted from his end. It had become their habit to this this when the forced inactivity of spaceflight was beginning to get to either of them.

They’d learned their lesson the hard way after he first accidental feedback loop.

“You got more out of them than I did.” Drift wasn’t happy with anything that tried to control his life, even (possibly especially) if it was something like the Greatswords. “How far away is the nearest place to stretch our alts? I swear I’m going to go insane if I don’t get out of this crate soon.”

“About two more days. There is a significant Cybertronian presence so we will be relatively unremarkable.” Wing shrugged, the flaps on his shoulder turbines flaring briefly. “I’m making course changes now. According to the latest update on the system there are drydock facilities available if we want to go ahead with those repairs on the ship.”

“So long as we have the shanix for it.” Drift’s optics narrowed as he ran some mental calculations. “If we can keep going without them I’d prefer to wait until we’re further away from the battlefront.”

Wing turned, examining the groundframe carefully.

After two rebuilds and a change in preferred weaponry Drift looked almost nothing like the severely injured mech he’d hauled back to new Crystal City. In fact, the remaining physical resemblance was so vague that now if you stood Drift and Deadlock side-by-side they could easily be mistaken for two completely different mechanisms.

“I don’t think anyone’s going to recognise you, but _Chushingura_ is perfectly capable of waiting for those repairs if you want to keep going after we stretch our alts a bit.” Wing offered.

The repairs weren’t urgent; they would just make shipboard life a little more comfortable for the both of them. Still, Wing didn’t miss the way Drift relaxed slightly at his suggestion. Every time they drew close to where the Cybertronian civil war still raged Drift became nervous and snappy, denying everything and closing down when Wing tried to get him to talk about it. Their destination was closer to the front than they had been for a while, close enough that they would probably run into mecha from either faction while they were there.

Autobots were more likely than Decepticons, but Drift didn’t want to risk being recognised by either.

The astrogation console beeped, forcing Wing to turn his attention back to it.

“Dunno why you insisted on _that_ when we renamed the ship.” Drift grumbled, changing the subject.

“What? You liked that tale as well!” Wing smiled to himself as his fingers flew over the controls, inputting a new flightpath. “It’s better than _John McLane;_ at least _Chushingura_ sounds like it could be from any number of languages.”

They’d been rehashing this same debate over and over again since visiting Earth and realising that the original designation of their vessel drew far too much attention from Cybertronians.

“They both fit.” Drift reasoned. “At least McLane had the good sense to stay alive. Killing yourself because the rules of your social group say you have to is _way_ beyond stupid.”

The jet suppressed a shudder, his wings jumping and twitching in their neat fold behind his back. His optics narrowed at the display in front of him.

“Drift, we’re both touchy from being shipboard too long so I’m _not_ going into that today.” Wing’s turbines thrummed, emphasizing his words. “However you can’t deny that those warriors were subject to the dictates of something outside their control, just as we are.”

“Social structure, Greatswords, whatever.” Drift waved a hand in the air. “There’s _always_ someone stronger than you telling you what to do. It’s only the who or that what doing the telling that’s different.”

“We have the Swords and the Code, so _Chushingura_ fits better than _John McLane_.” Wing didn’t bother to keep the touch of smugness he felt out of his tone.

The jet finished his adjustments to their course and locked it into the navigation systems, spinning his backless chair around to face Drift just in time to catch the grounder’s expression as he rolled his optics theatrically.

“Yeah, yeah. I know.” Drift swung his feet down from the console and stood up, stretching until little click-pop sounds could be heard coming from all over his frame. “Still doesn’t mean I like it.”

Wing eyed the graceful arch of Drift’s frame appreciatively. The last set of upgrades carried out at New Crystal City had integrated very nicely with the Ovaria’s substructure and now he made a _very_ pretty sight indeed. Wing extended his EM Field to gently brush Drift’s with a question, making the Grounder twitch. They didn’t bother trying to mute the Syngnath resonance of their Fields when they were alone and Drift was still getting used to it.

Drift’s response was a flare of surprise which became invitation, accompanied by a knowing smirk at Wing as he headed for the door. Wing bounced to his pedes and followed, continuing to stroke with his Field. Drift teased back, his walk changing subtly to a glide that made his new outline undulate enticingly as they left the Bridge.

“I can’t _wait_ to get to this planet.” Drift grumbled, adding an extra sway to his hips that turned his hip scabbards into a distinct hazard that kept Wing from following too closely. “I’m _dying_ for a decent drive.”

“I know what you mean.” Wing sighed, “I swear if it wasn’t for the protocols and having spent a few millennia underground I would’ve had at least one case of screaming claustrophobia by now.”

“Just the one, flyboy?” Drift pivoted on a foot and stopped, bracing his arms across the corridor and smirking at Wing.

Wing’s reflexes had him stopping just in time to avoid running into Drift. The jet smiled serenely, answering Drift’s posturing with some of his own. He deliberately shifting his stance so his skirting panels slid over each other with a suggestive sound, slowly spreading the white blades of his wings as far as the corridor would allow.

He was rewarded with a deep rev from the grounder’s engine and a kneading roll of Drift’s EM Field.

“I reserve the right not to say anything that might incriminate myself.” Wing said airily, imitating Drift at his most evasive before dropping his voice “As for the screaming part, however…”

The surge of Wing’s Field against and into Drift’s whited out the grounder’s optics for a moment. Drift’s presence in the bond unfurled with a rush, his mouth sagging open before he regained his self-control and closed it with an audible _snap_.

“You’re on.” Drift growled, waiting just long enough for the jet to half-fold his wings again before dragging him into the berthroom.


	2. Familiar Faces in Strange Places

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you go to the shops today you'd better go in disguise.  
> If you go to the shops today you're in for a big surprise.

# Two

Reaching their destination went smoothly, as did obtaining permission to land.

Both Syngnath nearly vibrated right out of their armour during their first day planetside. They’d landed in the early afternoon, local time and all available daylight hours were consumed by dealing with the legal nonsense required for a species whose civil war was the most infamous event since the creation of the known universe. They had to adhere to extra restrictions on top of a list of planetary laws roughly as long as Drift’s arm.

_You’d think a major trade planet would have less rules than a fragging army, but_ no.

By the time they were done it was far too late to head out and stretch their altmodes. Wing spent the early part of the evening obsessively checking and re-checking local flightpaths and aero-safety procedures while Drift tried to wheedle more information out of his Greatsword and got nothing but a helmache.

Both Ovaria were far too keyed up at the prospect of finally being able to _move_ that neither of them ended up being able to recharge. They spent most of the night taking turns at distracting each other before they finally collapsed in utter exhaustion a few hours before sunrise. Dawn found them recharging in a tangle of limbs right in the middle of their berth, having been too preoccupied to bury themselves under their pile of thermal covers as usual.

Lack of recharge didn’t keep Drift or Wing in the berth for an astroseconds once awareness of the time filtered through their sluggish processors.

As soon as they were able the Ovaria locked _Chushingura_ down and parted ways. Drift set off on foot, not trusting himself to obey speed limits on his way to a Cybertronian-sized racetrack. Wing threw himself into the sky, pointed his nosecone towards the stratosphere and disappeared as fast as the low-altitude airspeed limit would allow.

The speedway Drift had chosen was open to tourists and the general public during the day but closed early in the afternoon to prepare for the professionals of the evening circuit. As a result Drift wasn’t able to fully exorcise the relentless need to MOVE that had built up aboard ship but he was calm enough that he wasn’t about to rip into anyone over something relatively trivial, like cutting him off in traffic or bumping into him by accident.

Despite the absolutely appalling traffic Drift was the first of the pair to return to _Chushingura_ that evening.

He pulled up outside the ship, unfolded from altmode and let himself in. Automatically Drift checked the various defences and security alarms to make sure none had been tripped while they were out.

Paranoia was a survival trait for their kind.

Once that was done, Drift opened his end of the bond a little to check on Wing. He received pure joy and the weird sensation of _flight_ , which meant the jet was probably screaming through the air somewhere far overhead and loving every moment of it.

From past experience Drift knew the flightframe would spend as long as absolutely possible in the air today. Wing would only return when the laws of the planet drove him from the skies.

_I’m going to have the washracks all to myself!_

Excited by the prospect Drift hurried through the ship, briefly stopping by the berthroom to hang his Greatsword on the wall rack. Both sets of their shorter blades were stowed neatly underneath the twin sets of clamps that held Aequitas and Ianus when the Ovaria slept. This planet didn’t allow sentients to carry anything deadlier than a palm-sized blade Drift disparagingly referred to as a ‘butterknife’ but for some reason they had made allowances for the Greatswords. It was a weird double standard that neither mech argued with.

The moment Ianus was safely settled in its brackets Drift ran for the washrack, eager for a chance to be fully and properly clean without any of Wing’s teasing for how long he took.

_One more jab about aquatic altmodes and I’m going to weld his mouth shut._

Parts of his frame ached that hadn’t hurt since the last time he’d been racing in altmode and there was junk stuck in his tyres and undercarriage that Drift didn’t even want to think about. He welcomed the aches but wanted the dirt gone before it worked in deeper and started itching.

The instant the solvent flowing hot enough for Drifts taste the Ovaria transformed, dropping his Cybertronian disguise. His entire frame expanded, optics developing slitted apertures and his fingertips thickened with the housings for his retractable claws. It was an indescribable relief to be in his true form and Drift sighed happily, stretching until a list of over-extension warnings started scrolling past his HUD.

Apparently when they’d acquired this ship back in Crystal City nobody had remembered that even though Ovaria were typically smaller than Incubators, their Syngnath forms were still a good deal larger than the Cybertronian disguises they wore on a day-to-day basis. _Chushingura_ was sized to their Cybertronian forms, creating a whole new world of problems.

The berth wasn’t _quite_ big enough for both Ovaria to use when in their Syngnath forms and they definitely couldn’t roam the ship in them without a lot of awkward ducking through doors and painful scraping of their sensory horns on ceilings. Since Drift was the tallest he’d given up first and stuck to his Cybertronian form unless in the washracks or berthroom. The washrack was the only room where Drift could stand upright in without fearing for his horns which only solidified his opinion that this was the best room on the entire ship.

Knowing he would have plenty of time, Drift took full advantage of his freedom to enjoy the washrack without interruption. He flared his armour to let the solvent flow underneath, letting the heat chase away the worst aches of a long-but-not-quite-long-enough endurance drive. When he felt soaked enough Drift spent two entire local hours carefully digging into all the little seams he usually give a quick scrub and forgot about, thoroughly cleaning and detailing every part of his frame he could reach.

By the time Drift was clean, dry, polished and fuelled Wing still hadn’t returned. A gentle question through the bond was met with stubborn refusal and the sense of Wing heading higher, turbines straining to compensate for reduced air pressure. Drift sent a wash of amusement and fondness before pulling out of their sparkbond and leaving Wing to it.

Remaining in his Syngnath form, Drift hunched over and shuffled awkwardly through the short corridor to the berthroom. Once he was inside he straightened up carefully eyed the berth and the untidy heaps of Cybertronian-type thermal tarps and assorted blankets and coverings they’d picked up since leaving New Crystal City mounded atop it.

It looked more like a murder scene than a nest.

_May as well tidy up. At least it’ll be something to do._

Drift stripped the berth and entirely remade their nest. When he was done he crawled in and immediately fell into recharge.

Wing returned a quarter of the way through the local night cycle, alerting Drift to his presence through their bond before working his way into the centre of the rebuilt nest.

Drift got a full breem to enjoy the lack of claustrophobic tension and the relentless buzz of pent-up energy that had been filling Wing’s Spark and Field for the last few weeks before icy-cold hands found his warm frame.

“WING!” Drift yelped, shoving the cold jet away from him with both arms and destroying the carefully rebuilt nest. “You’re FREEZING!”

“ _Mmm-hmm_.” The jet hummed agreement, trying to wriggle his way closer to Drift. “Wind chill. It was a _good_ flight. You’re warm.”

“And you’re _not_.” Drift growled, hooking his claws threateningly around Wing’s cockpit glass.

Something about the texture of Wing’s armour made Drift run the pads of his rounded fingertips over it again. Tactile sensors registered minor abrasions and a few deeper scratches from airborne particles and a distinct layer of something that _wasn’t_ wax, thicker over the areas that would be windward parts of Wing’s altmode. Wing took advantage of his distraction to squirm between Drift’s arms and press as much of his flight-chilled armour against the other Ovaria as he could. The jet chirred happily, nuzzling his slightly warmer faceplates into Drift’s neck cabling.

“You didn’t even rinse off before coming in here to shove your freezing cold armour all over mine, did you.” Drift accused. “You’re disgusting! And I should fragging know, I met cleaner people living in the _sewers_.”

“I _miss_ flight grime.” Wing sighed, pulling the butchered remains of the nest comfortably around them both. “I’ll wash it off first thing in the morning. _And_ fix your wax, promise.”

Drift couldn’t resist that particular forlorn tone or the emotions Wing was leaking through the Sparkbond. The jet felt _normal_ for the first time in weeks and not like the stifled, wing-clipped creature he became when they spent too long between worlds. Thinking about the welcome ache in his own axels Drift relented, wrapping his arms around Wing and pulling the other Ovaria close. The jet purred and curled deeper into the embrace, obviously exhausted.

“There’s a little street market thing near the Coliseum,” Drift murmured into Wing’s audial. “Wanna go check it out in the morning?”

All he got was a semi-conscious noise of agreement before the jet’s field started pulsing slowly, the sparkbond showing that he was completely out for the count.

“Crazy jet.” Drift breathed, settling himself comfortably before initiating his own recharge sequence.

## ~V~V~V~V~

The market was an absolutely typical example of its type universe-over, only the subtle local variants of colour and preferred materials telling the Ovaria that they weren’t in any one of a thousand other street markets on a thousand other worlds. This one seemed to run to blue-grey with bright metallic accents in every possible shade.

It was a little more spread-out than others they’d been to, which meant that so long as the pair of Cybertronian-disguised Syngnathi stuck to the wider walkways they could get about without getting into too much trouble. They walked slowly and telegraphed their intended path before moving so the smaller, more fragile sentients also browsing the market could work around them.

“Oh look, Drift!” Wing’s optics fixed on a stall like a turbohawk spotting prey. “Lapidary. I wonder where they source their stones?”

“You go ask,” The last thing Drift wanted to do was waste the morning looking at rocks. “I’ll go find the fabric place and see if they have anything sturdy enough to survive mechanoids.”

“For someone who’s lived their entire life on the ground you show a remarkable lack of appreciation for what it can produce.” Wing teased, canting his hips and smirking at Drift when the sound of enamelled armour plates sliding over each other inevitably got his attention.

“For a Flightframe you have some truly _weird_ obsessions.” Drift shot back, wrenching his optics _away_ from shiny skirting panels and back up to Wing’s faceplates with a heroic effort. He really hadn’t spent long enough on the racetrack yesterday and excess charge still burned though his circuits. “Are you _sure_ you didn’t hit the ground one too many times as a fledgling?”

Wing stuck his glossa out at Drift and laughed when Drift shook his head, turning carefully to scope out the easiest route to where he wanted to go. They traded a few playful nudges of their Fields, friendly squabbling that neither of them took seriously.

“Just don’t spend all day looking at rocks, alright?” The grounder said, heading off at a slow walk while Wing practically danced out of Field range.

_He’s gonna step on someone, I know it._

Drift wandered towards the fabric stalls, taking comfort in the sight of other Cybertronians at the market including several others who were also without faction symbols. It made Wing and himself a little less conspicuous. His vents stilled subconsciously every time he caught the distinctive outline of a Cybertronian, resuming proper respiration again when he saw no hint of a Decepticon brand.

_I don’t care what Wing says, Turmoil or the DJD would still be able to recognise me like this_.

A fond smile crossed Drift’s faceplates when he saw a blocky red-and-white mech bearing the distinctive symbols of a Medic on both shoulders. He had always liked that strong, practical kind of silhouette; it reminded him of that Medic from the Dead End, the one who ran a drop-in clinic for gutter trash like Drift. It had been strictly under-the-radar and Drift hadn’t been the only one to earn dents in defence of it and the mech who ran it.

_Ratchet. I wonder what happened to him?_

Drift was so caught up in his memories that he didn’t believe his optical input when the medic turned away from the stall he was perusing, giving Drift a good look at his entire frame and those hauntingly familiar faceplates. He stood, frozen in place and staring like a fool.

_No. It_ can’t _be._

The frame had changed, augmented with stronger armour and the helm has been simplified but the distinctive forehelm chevron was still there. There was evidence of past injury in the Medic’s movement if you know what to look for and deep grooves marred his faceplates but Drift was willing to swear on his Spark that it was the same Medic from the Dead End.

_You don’t forget the first person to save your life._

“Ratchet?”

The designation that left his vocaliser was barely a croak.

The Medic finished turning and started walking away. Almost panicking even though he couldn’t say why, Drift reset his vocaliser tried again.

“ _Ratchet?_ ”

The Medic heard, stopped, turned and frowned at Drift.

It was almost-but-not-quite the same expression he’d worn when Drift talked about renting out his altmode, but there was no mistake. It was Ratchet.

Even though he looked definitely confused and a little annoyed the mech waited patiently while Drift carefully picked his way across the aisle between stalls. The first polite brush of their EM Fields confirmed the Medics identity beyond a shadow of a doubt.

_Yup, that’s him_.

“I don’t think we’ve met.” Ratchet sounded like he was trying very hard to be polite when he had absolutely no desire to be social. “How d’you know that variant of my designation?”

“We have met, but it was a long time ago.” The very sound of smooth Iaconan vowels had Drift lapsing back into his old Dead-End inflections. “You remember how you used to run that clinic in the Dead End, Rodion? You saved my life.”

[Flyboy, drop those rocks and get your aft over here.] Drift commed Wing, deliberately leaking excitement and anticipation through their bond to hurry the jet along.

Wing’s endless curiosity was a pain in the aft but it _did_ come in handy sometimes.

[Coming!]

“I saved a lot of people’s lives back then. I’m a Medic, it’s what I do.” Ratchet folded his arms and gave Drift a suspicious look. “Sorry to say I don’t remember you, kid.”

Drift couldn’t help grinning at the way the older mech called him ‘kid’.

 “I’m Drift.” He a form of his designation he hadn’t used in millennia, the one he’d gone by in Rodion. “I mean, I’ve had a few rebuilds and stuff but it’s still me.”

Recognition flickered across Ratchet’s faceplates and shot through his Field. His optics went bright and he subjected Drift to a long, cold stare and a thorough examination that baffled the speedster.

“A few rebuilds and changes of faction too, I see.” Ratchet’s voice was colder than the vacuum of space, his Field withdrawing from contact.

“Oh.” Drift could feel his finial-disguised horns heating with embarrassment. He sighed. “Yeah, joining the ‘Cons wasn’t the best decision I ever made. I wasn’t in the right place to be making choices and Shockwave kinda took advantage of that.”

Belatedly Drift realised too late what he’d done; casually dismissed years of killing with ‘So-and-so talked me into it’.

Ratchet’s optics narrowed and his armour clamped down so tight Drift could hear little creaking noises. The speedster opened his mouth to try to dig himself out of the hole he was in but Wing apparently decided that this was the best time to arrive and place a supportive hand on Drift’s lower back.

“You commed, Drift?” Wing sounded cheerful, pronouncing Drift’s designation the same way they’d been doing since leaving New Crystal City.

The old medic noticed the difference, his expression shifting subtly.

_How does one mech have so many different frowns?_

“Wing, this is Ratchet.” Drift used the forms of their names that he was familiar with, even though he was sure Ratchet’s would have changed. “Ratchet is the Medic who saved my life back in Rodion. Ratchet, Wing is responsible for beating some sense into me and making me use your gift properly.”

“My _gift?_ ” Ratchet’s tone bordered on open hostility now.

“Um, my life. You saved me when you didn’t have to so it kinda counts...” Drift trailed off awkwardly.

“It’s good to finally meet you, Ratchet.” Wing said, extending his Field and both hands palm-up in a friendly greeting common to New Crystal City.

Apparently it wasn’t specific to the city, because Ratchet stepped forward and flawlessly carried out the other half of the little ritual, placing his own open hands palm-down over the jet’s and relaxing his EM Field.

“If Drift owes his life to you then by extension I also owe you mine,” Wing said, aiming what Drift knew was his most charming smile at the definitely flustered medic. “We’re here for a few days to re-stock our ship; I hope that during that time we can at least host you for a meal? It is the least that honour demands.”

“... _What?_ ” Ratchet’s optics cycled furiously and he shot a blank look at Drift, obviously expecting the more familiar mech to explain this lunacy.

“It’s a Code thing.” Drift said glumly.

“‘Code thing’?” Ratchet sounded completely lost and more than a little annoyed.

Drift cycled his vents on a long sigh. Wing was sending him absolutely infuriating levels of smugness over their Bond, obviously enjoying putting Drift on the spot.

_I’m going to get him for this._

“Knights of Light have this Code thing they – _we_ \- have to follow,” Drift explained, “Some of it doesn’t make much sense, but it’s clear on obligation and Life-Debt. According to the Code Wing owes you his life by proxy because you saved my Spark and then I kinda saved his. I’ve owed you since Rodion, because street rules were clear on that sort of thing as well.”

“So you ask me out to dinner.” Ratchet made it a statement instead of a question.

The Medic’s phrasing made Drift very uncomfortable and he shifted on his pedes, suddenly very glad that there were no other Cybertronians within audial range. Wing seemed positively delighted by the entire situation, quietly refusing to bring attention to the fact that Ratchet’s hands were still gently resting on top of his own while the older mech stared at Drift.

“It’s not a date, it’s more like a formal thing where we fuel and try to find a mutually agreeable way to discharge the debt.” Drift mumbled uncomfortably, feeling his horns flush with heat again. “If there isn’t then we go on owing you until you decide to call in the debt.”

“I see.” Ratchet stepped back from Wing, dropping his hands to his sides.

A little chiming noise announced that an information packet from an unknown source had arrived, visual notification also popping up on Drift’s HUD. He automatically scanned it before opening, finding the digital version of a business card with the Medics contact information.

“Thank you, Medic Ratchet.” Wing said, using the designation from Ratchets contact information. “We shall be in touch.”

“Right.” Ratchet said briskly. “I have to get back to work. My evenings are basically free unless there’s an accident so comm me with the times you’re free.”

With a nod to each mech, Ratchet turned and left as quickly as the smaller sentient foot traffic around them would allow. Drift watched him until he disappeared around a corner, trying to ignore the confusion in his Spark and wondering what in the Pit he’d just gotten himself into. Wing bounced a little on the tips of his pedes, turning and positively _beaming_  at Drift, who gave the other Ovaria a dour look.

“Dai Atlas was right. You _are_ a terror.” Drift said, reaching out to take Wings hand.

“But you love me anyway.” Wing sounded content as he intertwined their fingers.

“ _Yeah_.” Drift said quietly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wing is a little shit.  
> He is EXTREMELY pleased with himself for 1)Being able to discharge the life-debt and 2)Setting up a way to hang out with this savior-mech Drift has talked about.  
> Fuck, I don't know what I'm doing with his character and I'm sorry.


	3. Dinner and a Risk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ratchet tries to talk the Knights out of this 'life-debt' nonsense.  
> In doing so he discovers that _Chushingura_ is packing far more than just a well-stocked kitchen.

# Three

Of all the mecha Ratchet could possibly run across on this relatively remote little world, it just _had_ to be the one he had the most loaded history with.

Ratchet had lost count long ago of the number of times he’d lain awake, unable to recharge and tormented himself by wondering how many sparks would have been saved if he’d been just a little worse at his job. How many mecha would still be alive if he hadn’t gone to the clinic that day, if he’d just _ignored_ that nagging feeling of dissatisfaction and learned to live with it instead of opening the blasted thing in the first place.

He’d never know.

By saving Drift’s life Ratchet had unleashed upon the universe a deadly Decepticon whose bloodthirsty rage only Megatron or Turmoil could control. The energon of Deadlock'c victims was on Ratchet’s conscience, too.

_And now he’s invited me round for dinner. Primus, what a joke!_

He could only hope this ‘Wing’ mech knew what he was dealing with when it came to Drift. The way they interacted certainly seemed to say he did. The little snippet of conversation Ratchet had accidentally overheard when leaving the market looped in his processors when he was distracted, filling him with a conflicting mess of emotions that he deliberately shoved aside without examining.

_You_ are _a terror…  But you love me anyway… Yeah._

Ratchet hadn’t expected the offer to socialise and _definitely_ hadn’t expected them to get in touch with him so soon. Their invitation arrived at his office precisely one day after he’d met Drift and Wing at the market. It named a landing bay somewhere in the spaceport as the destination and contained several possible times they were free for Ratchet to choose from.

The prim-and- proper formula and phrasing of the invitation brought back pleasant memories of Cybertron before the war. Ratchet almost smiled when he pulled the correct response format from deep in his memory banks and sent his reply, choosing a time at random from the ones the younger mecha had sent.

It made no difference to him, not with his complete and utter lack a social life.

Exactly three local days after the indescribably awkward public conversation Ratchet was standing in front of the wall-length mirror in his apartment, holding a cloth and making sure his plating was presentable. Usually he avoided the mirror, hating to be forced to see visible reminders of what the war had done to him.

_I’m an Incubator and a Medic. I’m supposed to nurture and heal,_ not _kill._

He frowned at his reflection, rubbing at scuffed plating and poking at his memory banks.

There had been a hint of _something_ odd in Drift’s field back in the Dead End, something almost like a badly-hidden Syngnathi resonance. Ratchet had wanted to ask about it but hadn’t dared to with Orion Pax there. Frown deepening, Ratchet scrubbed at some abrasions on his abdominal plating. That resonance had been completely missing the other day, so either Drift had learned to hide himself properly or Ratchet had just been imagining things. Although, if Shockwave really _had_ been responsible for Drift joining the Decepticons it could very well be that the former was true.

The Incubator shuddered, staring at his reflection.

_I should just be grateful that Shockwave didn’t break._

When Orion brought the news of Shockwave having been abducted by the Functionalist council, Ratchet had prepared himself for the worst. If Shockwave broke and gave his torturers what they wanted, Ratchet knew he wouldn’t survive the vorn.

No Syngnath did, once they were discovered.

He’d been too busy warning others who might be compromised and bracing himself for the possibility of torture and vivisection to worry about the slim chance that a leaker from the Dead End could be Syngnathi. At the time he’d decided that Drift was safter if Ratchet didn’t verify his identity.

What he didn’t know couldn’t be tortured out of him, after all.

_Stop fussing over the past, you can't change any of it._

Ratchet growled low in his vocaliser. Giving up on his finish he threw the polishing cloth aside and scowled at his reflection in the mirror. He was presentable, even if he wasn’t groomed to the same standard as certain shiny white-plated neutrals.

_Keeping people alive is more important than polishing my fragging plating._

Stomping out of his apartment he shifted into his ambulance altmode, pulling quietly out into the light traffic and heading towards the spaceport.

 

## ~~V~V~V~V~V~~

 

At the spaceport Ratchet rolled to a stop, hoping he had the right landing bay. He unfolded from his altmode, looking up with bemusement at the identification poorly stencilled on the side of the ship. It was obviously a recent alteration, faint traces of the old designation still visible beneath the fresh paint.

_That’s an Earth language up there beside the Cybertronian. What the slag?_

The ship looked more than a little scruffy around the edges, but the fast little model was definitely spaceworthy. He was still puzzling out how to pronounce the Cybertronian glyphs on the hull when a door-sized section halfway down the side of the ship recessed and slid sideways. The white flightframe called Wing virtually _bounced_ through the opening and over to Ratchet, smiling with a kind of carefree cheerfulness the Incubator hadn’t seen since before the war.

“Ratchet! The ship sensors said there was someone out here, so I assumed it was you. Thank you so much for coming” Wing’s Field was filled with honesty and genuine pleasure where it brushed the medics in a polite greeting. The jet seemed more settled than the last time they’d met. “Drift kicked me out of the kitchen and I happened to be heading past the bridge at the right moment, so I thought I’d come out and see.”

“It’s n- Wait, _‘kitchen’_?” The random English word in the middle of an otherwise purely Cybertronian sentence threw Ratchet off.

“We spent a while on Earth and unfortunately some of the languages seem to have infected us.” Wing apologised, extending an arm towards Ratchet in an old formal gesture of welcome. “Welcome aboard our ship, _Chushingura_. Would you like to come see what Drift has made?”

Ratchet hesitated a moment before placing his hand on the jet’s forearm, politely avoiding the tucked-away stabiliser fin. Following the level of formality dictated by Wing’s offer of his forearm Ratchet let his host set the pace as he steered Ratchet through the ship, telling the medic where each corridor went as they passed them. Out of long habit Ratchet paid close attention to his surroundings, wondering at the random scrapes of white on the ceiling. Either the previous owner had been too tall for the internal corridors or these two got _seriously_ claustrophobic on long trips.

_If I find out he’s tried to fly in here I’ll remove his fragging t-cog._

Sensitive medical chemoreceptors reported an amazing array of fuel additives well before they arrived in the ‘kitchen’. Even though Wing’s EM Field was nothing but perfectly composed Ratchet could still hear the flightframe’s folded flightpanels clicking against each other as they twitched in response to his emotions as they approached what was apparently Drift’s domain.

“Drift’s a _really_ good cook,” Wing was saying as they entered the fuel preparation and serving area. “Though I’m warning you now, if he’s slagged off with you he can and will make something that looks like your favourite but tastes absolutely _foul_.”

The jet’s armour shook in an expressive shudder of disgust as he politely gestured for Ratchet to take a seat at a table which had been folded down from the wall. The seating was a pair of benches that extended from the same wall and a backless Flightframe-style stool at the end of the table opposite the wall.

 “I take it that’s happened a few times, then?” Ratchet couldn’t hide his amusement as he seated himself on one of the benches.

“Yes, but he deserved it every time.” Drift’s voice came from the other side of the small room, startling the medic.

The speedster’s systems ran so quietly Ratchet hadn’t even noticed the mech.

To cover his surprise Ratchet looked back at Wing, who was wearing such a blatantly false look of innocence he could only snort and shake his helm at the younger mechs.

“Somehow I don’t think I’d be surprised.” Ratchet observed, making Wing laugh and Drift roll his optics.

He found it surprisingly easy to converse with the two neutral mecha despite the distinct awkwardness between himself and Drift. Wing kept the conversation flowing, smoothing over silent patches and changing the topic whenever they teetered on the edge of dangerous subjects. The Incubator kept a tight rein on his curiosity even though he was itching to know how in the Pit the jet had managed to avoid the war. It turned out that Drift really _was_ every bit as good a cook as Wing had claimed, Ratchet made sure to sample everything the speedster had prepared.

It had been a long, long time since the medic had experienced anything like this; easy conversation and a variety of well-prepared Energon products to sample in a peaceful environment. After a few false starts and with Wing’s smooth social skills they quickly achieved an easy flow of conversation and the EM Fields of all three mechs relaxed, outer layers mingling just enough to allow additional communication when mouths were full or someone wanted to express a feeling without interrupting.

Despite knowing very well that the war was lightyears away Ratchet still couldn’t quite squash a nagging fear that at any moment an alarm would sound, shattering the calm and summoning them to battlestations. As hard as he tried the medic couldn’t keep it from leaking into his Field occasionally, tension and grim anticipation.

The other two picked it up nearly every time. Whenever they did Wing would throw him a pitying look while Drift twitched and looked guilty.

The medic could tell from watching the pair that they were bonded on a deeper level than simple close association from travelling together. Even sitting at a table their movements seemed to flow and complement eachothers as if the motion commands came from one being. There were obvious silent conversations carried out without even the faint hiss of coded comms on the higher frequencies.

_Sparkbonded. Lovely._

It didn’t escape Ratchet’s notice as he nibbled and talked and even _laughed_ that most of the dishes Drift had prepared included minerals and metals that were vital for the healthy functioning of a Syngnathi mechanism. Most of them were fairly common requirements for Cybertronian systems as well, but for such a wide variety of them to show up in a relatively small number of fuel preparations was… interesting, to say the least.

When they were all comfortably fuelled the two neutral mecha got down to business, Wing skilfully steering the conversation towards the purpose of their little get-together.

“So now we’ve finished with the tasty part, we may as well get to the reason we invited you here.” The jet said as he poured a thin, sweetened Energon into drinking vessels.

“This ‘life-debt’ thing.” Ratchet made air-quote motions with his hands before accepting the Energon Wing passed him. “I’m going to be blunt; the whole concept is totally antithetical to my coding. I’m a medic; saving lives is what I _do._ While I understand that you may think differently, how I see it, neither of you owe me _anything_.” Ratchet struggled to word his beliefs in a way the others would understand. “The very idea of considering someone to be beholden to me simply for doing what I was forged and coded to do is… I find it almost obscene.”

Ratchet shrugged, spreading his hands helplessly. He pushed what he could into his Field, feeling Drift’s open confusion and Wing’s understanding through the lightly meshed outer layers of their EM Fields.

“Back in Rodion, what I learned was that if someone risked their Spark for you then you owed it to them to do the same in return. It was one way you knew who you could trust and who was worth and sticking around with.” Drift spoke first, choosing his words with obvious care. “At least, so far as you could trust the kinds of mecha we were.”

With the perfect timing that could only come with a Sparkbond the jet stepped in and took over the explanation the very astrosecond Drift started to flounder.

“As Knights of Light, we follow a Code which requires us to conduct our functioning in a certain manner.” Wing gave the briefest explanation possible, although the glyph-words used for ‘light’ made Ratchet curious. “According to the tenets of this Code, we _both_ owe you a life-debt for your actions in saving Drift’s Spark. From what I know of Cybertron at that time and what Drift has said, as Chief Medical Officer you had no business running a Clinic in the Dead End in the first place.”

Ratchet grumbled and shifted on the bench, his embarrassment at being caught out plain for the others to read in his Field.

“It was Orion Pax’s suggestion,” The medic grumbled, “Being CMO was great and all but I was unfulfilled. The Senate would have thrown a fit if they knew about the Clinic. I was just doing what needed to be done.”

“And… there’s something else.” Drift was clearly reluctant to continue.

Wing reached out and took the grounder’s hand, squeezing it gently. Ratchet wasn’t sure if he envied their closeness or if the sappy gesture made him want to purge his tanks.

“It’s because of what I did after you saved my Spark,” The speedster’s words came out slowly, his Field retreating from their easy contact as he forced himself to continue speaking. “Abusing your gift of life like that… I owe you _more_ than just a life-debt.”

Ratchet couldn’t think of anything remotely civil to say to that. With a supreme act of will he forced his Field to stay calm and kept his vocaliser firmly offline.

“What you said to me when I came around after surgery…” Drift trailed off, optics dimming as he accessed the correct memory file.

“Listen to me, kid.” Drift started quoting Ratchet verbatim, “I saved your life today. What happens _next_ is up to you. Get a _paint’n’polish_ and visit the _Functionalists_ downtown – see if they can match you up with a job.” Drift’s vents hitched almost inaudibly as he finished the final lines, flawlessly matching the medic’s inflections. “You’re _special_ – I can tell. Now get out there and prove me right.”

Heavy silence filled the room when Drift finished speaking.

Ratchet couldn’t look at either of the neutral mechs. He remembered that day far too well, probably because of what Drift had done with his life afterwards. All the killing he had done as Deadlock.

“Was that an accurate quote?” Drift asked awkwardly. “I think about it often enough.”

“Me too, kid.” Ratchet admitted, staring down at his hands where they clenched around his glass.

Ratchet heard Drift run a deep cycle of his vents, tracking an odd pulse of _support/encourage/push_ from the jet’s Field to Drift, backing up whatever silent conversation they were having.

“I’ve… I’ve never forgotten it.” Drift said, voice coming out low and rough.

Then Drift’s EM Field reached out again and Ratchet nearly fell off his seat from the shock of what he felt in it.

_Syngnath… Ovaria… He’s…_

“You’re…” Ratchet’s vocaliser shut down, refusing to work.

He stared at the younger mech with wide optics, processor stalling while he gaped and tried to figure out what to say. As the silence dragged on Ratchet felt tension and growing fear coil through Drift’s Field. He reacted without thinking, everything in him responding automatically to the touch of a distressed Ovaria.

If this was a trap, if the jet was using Drift as bait to trick him into revealing himself, Ratchet didn’t care.

The medic reached out with his Field, wrapping it around the speedsters’ and smoothing over the jagged edges of fear with _comfort/safety/reassurance_. A bright flash of surprise followed by Spark-deep relief surging through the contact made Ratchet pause, realising he’d instinctively allowed his Field to fill with the Syngnathi resonance he normally suppressed.

A different Field that also pulsed with the distinctive feel of _Syngnath/Ovaria_ brushed Ratchet before he could fully process what he’d just done. The medic’s helm whipped around to stare at the jet who was smiling at him with his dark fingers curved protectively over Drift’s.

“ _We_ are.” Wing emphasised the plural, his yellow optics blazing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHA I'M A FUCKING BITCH AREN'T I?
> 
> ~Ratchet didn't buy the mirror, it was already there when he moved in.  
> ~Wing is less hyper because he's spent a lot of time in the air over the last few days. Proper care of jets includes a strenuous exercise regimen and plenty of airspace.  
> ~Drift needed a constructive hobby so Wing taught him how to cook. Drift took to it like a duck to water.


	4. Diplomacy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ratchet asks for some time to think.  
> Drift and Wing keep eachother entertained.

# Four

Wing maintained Field contact with both Drift and Ratchet, silently supporting Drift through their bond as Ratchet struggled to process the information they’d just hit him with. Feeling an Incubator’s Field again after so long made the jet’s systems _thrum_. He longed to bury himself in it, the distinctive harmonics whispered of refuge that Wing desperately craved.

_No, that’s not for you. Focus._

Ratchet managed to get his metaphorical pedes under himself much faster than they’d expected him to. The Medic’s plating tightened and relaxed several times, brief flickers of emotion flitting through his field faster than Wing could catch as his entire processor fixated on the feel of the Incubator himself. Through their Sparkbond Drift sensed his difficulty and passed on what he was able to read from the older mech’s Field. When that was added to Wing was able to pick up it wasn’t a reassuring picture.

“Both of you…” Ratchet stared at the pair of Ovaria, “ _How?_ ”

It wasn’t the most coherent question in the world, but Ratchet used his Field to clarify what he intended to say with the jumble of words. Wing felt the Incubator broaden his attention to include him but the main focus of his Field was still on Drift. The jet fought down an unexpected stab of resentment. 

“Shockwave was keeping an eye on your Clinic, making sure you weren’t caught by the rest of the Senate.” Drift took the plunge first, “After the Institute released him he came to check on you and found me. He figured out what I was and took me in and the rest… yeah.”

Drift didn’t meet anyone’s optics, staring down at the table with discomfort and shame rolling through his Field. Wing automatically supported him through their bond, feeling Ratchet’s Field flex and shift in response to Drift bringing up the part of his past that lay between them. He decided to intervene before things became more strained, hoping that Ratchet would relax enough to allow deeper Field contact between the three of them.

“I chose to leave Cybertron with Dai Atlas and the other Knights, to preserve what we could of Cybertronian culture.” Wing’s voice was soft as he laid out his story, “It was my hope that in this new place we could exist openly alongside Cybertronians and no longer live in fear. Unfortunately there was only one other Syngnath I knew who was willing to risk the trip.”

He felt Drift’s fingers tightening around his, presence solid and strong in the bond. The other Ovaria had heard this story before and knew what was coming.

“Her ship sustained heavy damage as we fled Cybertronian space.” The jet was reciting as if by rote now, pretending it happened to some other mecha. “Blackbird’s spark guttered before the escape pods were collected. I was the only Syngnath in New Crystal City until I found a stray Decepticon wandering around the desert.”

“You say ‘and it followed me home’ one more time and I _swear_ I will kick your aft from here to Arcturus.” Drift growled menacingly, his armour fluffing up.

It was an effective way to change the mood and Wing laughed, responding to Drift’s threat-posturing with an affectionate nudge of his field. Drift subsided with a mock-snarl and the jet refilled the drinking vessels gracefully, just to be doing something to fill the momentary silence.

“Wait, this life-debt nonsense of yours falls under Kin-Duty too, doesn’t it?” Ratchet seized the chance to change the subject before they became mired in too many painful memories.

Both Ovaria nodded in unison.

Wing watched Ratchet run a hand over his faceplates, wondering what could make the Incubator look so drained. He was still too distracted by the feel of _Incubator_ in the older Syngnath’s Field to really pick up anything else. In face he was so distracted he’d even forgotten about Kin-Duty. If they had relied on Drift’s street-code concept of obligation and the Knight’s Code both Ovaria followed then Ratchet would have eventually been able to argue his way around them with a combination of coding excuses, medical ethics, and sheer stubbornness.

Not so if they invoked the unwritten laws binding Syngnath together.

He almost wanted to sing. Now they actually had a chance to help Ratchet with whatever was upsetting him.

Ratchet cycled his vents thoroughly, the warm air brushing over Wing’s specialised sensors and making his flightpanels twitch with interest before he could control them.

While they didn’t need to use scent neutralisers the way Ovaria did when they were in heat, Incubators still produced a very faint trace of something that differed from mech to mech and seemed to only be detectible to Syngnath systems. The last Incubator Wing had been with was a Seeker whose scent always registered as something like the inside of a storm cloud to his chemoreceptors.

Ratchet’s scent couldn’t be more different if he tried. Underneath the odours of his profession and recent polishing the Incubator smelled remarkably like one of the mineral-heavy concoctions Drift had prepared for their meal. His scent was rich and heavy; comforting and almost edible. Wing suppressed the urge to lean across the table and find out if the Medic tasted like that, too.

 _I_ really _should have spent more time flying today._

“I’m sorry; this is a lot to take in all at once.” Ratchet said apologetically, something odd winding through his Field. “I need time to process it.”

Drift opened his mouth to say something and Wing stepped on his pede.

“We understand,” The jet said, pulsing calm through the bond to Drift and filling his Field with warm acceptance. “It _is_ a lot to drop on you all at one time. How long do you need?”

Drift shot a wordless burst of protest at the jet, who could only reply by intensifying his transmission of calm along their bond. Ratchet wasn’t going to run away on them, not after finding out what they were and invoking Kin Duty. When it came to their own kind Syngnathi were fussier about the social rules wich bound them than the stuffiest Towers mech could ever hope to be.

The Incubator cycled his vents in a sigh, leaning forward slightly as his frame followed his Field as it yearned towards the Ovaria. Wing kept a tight rein on his desires, using every ounce of the self-control he’d gained during his training to keep from answering that yearning with his own.

“Give me two or three days.” Ratchet looked at Drift first before turning his optics to Wing. “That should be enough time for me to get my processors around all this.”

“You know where to find us, get in touch when you’re ready.” Wing could feel Drift’s disappointment through the bond and the distress in Ratchet’s Field, trying to soothe both at once when what he wanted to do was anything but soothing. “We won’t take off without coming to a mutually acceptable agreement about the status of the life-debt.”

By the time they called an end to the evening the outer layers of Ratchet’s Field had been blending easily with those of the two Ovaria, filling empty places the pair hadn’t even realised were there. The deeper merge tantalised Wing with what more would feel like, setting him on edge. It also allowed him to catch some odd flashes of emotion from Ratchet that definitely worried him; however the very real risk of accidentally driving the Incubator away kept him mentioning them.

The medic left when they’d finished their drinks, promising again to be in touch. When _Chushingura’s_ hatch closed on the sight of Ratchet folding into his ambulance altmode Wing turned to Drift, optics blazing with the desires he’d been suppressing. The jet twisted his Field twisting sensuously against the grounders’ and revved his turbines suggestively.

“Winner decides?” Drift asked, answering Wing’s unspoken challenge with a roll of his own Field.

“ _Yesss_.” The jet hissed, beginning the duel in earnest.

Their relationship hadn’t been intimate until after the battle with Braid, when Drift  had recklessly used Aequitas as a conduit, channelling his own Spark energy into Wing’s kept the jet’s guttering Spark pulsing just long enough for medics to arrive. Afterwards they had bowed to the inevitable and Wing had begun with teaching Drift how to use his EM Field like a Ovaira.

Despite the innate strength of Drift’s EM Field he still had a long way to go when it came to twining Fields with another Ovaria. It didn’t help that Wing already had him off-balance with an apparently unexplained change of mood. For the first time ever Wing took ruthless advantage of Drift’s inexperience, exploited every opening and using tricks he hadn’t exposed the younger Syngnath to before. Wing played to win, using nearly every trick he had to drive the grounder’s charge higher every time their Fields locked.

Drift didn’t yield gracefully. He struggled right up until his charge peaked and he shuddered through a minor overload with a guttural snarl. Wing smirked, his flightpanels twitching as he watched the younger Ovaria collect himself.

“So, what’ll it be?” Drift asked, rolling his shoulders to loosen locked joints.

“Cover me, spike me, claim me. Frag me _deep_.” Wing hissed into Drift’s audial, half-spread flightpanels now twitching at his sides.

For as long as they’d known each other the jet had never tried to hide just how much he enjoyed another frame pressing down on his own, but this was the first time he’d outright demanded it from Drift. All it took was a surge of surprised lust through their bond and a possessive growl from the grounder’s engine to send Wing sprinting towards the berthroom, barely one step ahead of Drift.

They didn’t make it.

Drift caught him halfway there; grabbing the jet around the waist in a dirty tackle that sent them both sprawling onto one of the low, padded benches of their living area. Wing struggled half-heartedly while spreading his thighs helpfully; laughter changing to a jolting whimper when the speedster carefully settled his weight along the line of Wing’s spinal struts, pressing his frame against the refolded flightpanels to restrain them.

The jet’s ventilations hitched at the contact, trapped and pinioned by the heavier frame of his mate. Vibrations from Drift’s engine teased the sensitive metal of Wing’s flightpanels. Instinct held his frame motionless and he offered willing submission to the one who’d overpowered him, even if it had been done at his own request.

“ _Mine_.” Drift purred into his audial.

The verbal claim set Wing’s circuits on fire.

He bared his valve without a second thought.

“ _Yours_.” The jet moaned, canting his hips in offering.

As soon as his claim was accepted Drift snapped his hips forward, slamming his spike into the welcoming valve.

He slid home easily; the sudden fullness dragging a relieved cry from Wing. Dark fingers dug gouges into the padded bench as Drift growled low and feral, waiting until the jet begged to start thrusting in earnest.

Unable to move, Wing could only revel in the feeling of security his coding drew from the possessive Field wrapping around his own and the slide of the grounder’s spike within him. Their pelvic armour met with enough force to transfer the outer layers of their enamel in broad streaks. The minor overload from their duel meant Drift had further to go before his charge reached overload point and he was pursuing that aim with a vengeance.

Unable to get his vocaliser to produce anything other than a whine, Wing flared his Field to share his pleasure with Drift. He wasn’t going to last long and he knew it. When he felt Drift increase the strength of his pounding Wing’s whine ramped up into a high keen of bliss. Lightning crackled over his plating, charge building at an almost obscene rate.

Pinned beneath the heavier groundframe Wing shuddered into a violent overload. His valve cinched down tightly on Drift’s spike, toppling the startled mech into overload with him. A choked shout of his designation broke from Drift’s vocaliser moments before a spurt of hot fluid filled Wing’s valve and sent him into a second, smaller overload.

Frames recovered before processors, efficient cooling systems dumping heat into the air for _Chushingura’s_ atmospheric systems to deal with. Gentle nuzzling at the back of Wing’s neck cables told him when Drift was more-or-less aware again. He chirred happily, twitching his shoulders in a signal for Drift to remove the pressure from his flightpanels.

Drift withdrew with a groan and a slick squelching noise that made Wing giggle helplessly. The jet remained where he was, propping himself up on his elbows and wiping drool from his chin with the back of his hand. He left his pelvic armour open, feeling their combined fluids dribble from his valve.

“Grubby jet.” Drift said affectionately, throwing a clean rag at Wing’s faceplates. “Here you go, I’m not cleaning you up.”

“Mmm, but you _like_ seeing me all sloppy.” Wing countered, folding his arms and resting his helm on them. “I’ll clean up in a bit, don’t want to move right now.”

Drift snorted and finished cleaning himself up, tossing his dirty cloth at the waste disposal. Wing wiggled his folded flightpanels in a cheeky set of signals, engine purring contentedly while he snickered to himself.

“So what’s got your turbines in a twist?” Drift asked curiously, shifting closer and running his free hand slowly down Wing’s spinal struts.

Wing sighed through his vents, embarrassment setting in.

“Incubator field.” The jet admitted in a low voice, meeting Drift’s optics. “It’s been so long; I’d almost forgotten what one felt like.”

Drift pulled back, concern filling his Field as his optics searched Wing’s face.

“You’re not… you know. Are you?” Apparently the grounder couldn’t bring himself to just say it.

Wing shook his helm firmly, reassuring Drift through their Bond.

“No. I’m not due for a little while yet.” Wing sighed, “It was just… unexpected, and it caught me off-guard. I know had your own suspicions from Rodion and Shockwave apparently considered him trustworthy… but there was still a part of me that just couldn’t accept until I felt it for myself.”

“Like I couldn’t really believe a place like New Crystal City actually _worked_ until you showed me.” Drift said, half to himself. “If you don’t let yourself start hoping it then hurts less if you find out you’ve been wrong.”

There was nothing Wing could think of to say to that. It hit far too close to the Spark. Suddenly the sticky fluids drying on his plating became irritating instead of being a happy reminder of recent pleasure. He grabbed the clean cloth Drift had thrown at him and sat up, cleaning his thighs. When he was done the jet closed his interfacing panels and threw the used rag at the disposal, resuming conversation.

“Ratchet’s EM Field…there was so much _caring_ there, I’ve never felt anything quite like it before.” Wing’s plating shivered, flightpanels moving against his back. “But there was something else.”

“I felt it too.” Drift frowned, staring into space as his processors worked. “He has the battle-twitches alright, but there was something else right after them; just a flash too quick to really read.” The grounder’s engine growled in frustration. “All I could tell was that it wasn’t _right._ Did you catch what it was?”

Wing shook his helm regretfully.

“I got as much as you did.” The jet cycled his vents in a sigh of defeat. “It was far too quick for me. I have a feeling that whatever it is, he won’t be willing to admit if he needs help.”

“You’re probably right.” Drift agreed. “He doesn’t seem to be any less stubborn than the last time I met him.”

The Ovaria shared a sober look, Wing silently praying that they hadn’t just jinxed themselves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a bastard to edit, it had all the flow of a learner driver bunnyhopping their way into first gear. I just don't get how Wing works at all D:
> 
> Blackbird is my Seeker TFOC who sometimes shows up when I need a random Incubator. This time she got fridged without even a cameo. Life's a bitch and so am I.


	5. Difficult Terrain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A small error in airspace judgement on Wing's part buys the two Ovaria some time to figure out their Ratchet problem.

# Five

Ratchet didn't get his three days.

He barely even got two.

Halfway through his second day of thinking time an extremely sheepish-looking jet limped into the small multi-species medical practice he volunteered at, asking to see a Cybertronian specialist.

Naturally, Ratchet the only Cybertronian specialist working that day.

It only took one look at Wing to figure out exactly what had happened. An uneven wingtip and bent stabilising fins paired with assorted scrapes from a slide landing shouted the story before Wing could even online his vocaliser.

"You were fancy flying and misjudged your clear airspace, right?" He asked before the jet was even through the door of his small office.

Wing twitched, surprise flickering through his Field and showing in the wiggle of his half-folded flightpanels.

“How did you know?” He sounded genuinely curious.

The image of another jet, crumpled wing-torn and bleeding flashed before Ratchet’s optics and he couldn’t completely control the minute tremor that shot through his frame. Another time and place, similar basic frametype and a similar error made when such errors were often fatal.

“I spent some time in Vos before the war. Saw plenty of young idiots with injuries like yours.” Ratchet said briskly, making sure he had his EM Field under control before approaching his patient and pointing at his desk. “Sword off, please. This is a doctor’s office, not a training room.”

“Oh, I see.” Wing seemed to accept the explanation at face value, removing the massive gem-hilted weapon from his back and carefully placing it where Ratchet indicated.

“I’m going to need to examine you to make sure you don’t have any internal injuries,” Ratchet wasn’t going to drag out the chit-chat when the jet was in obvious pain. “Then I’ll get you back in one piece.”

The jet sighed and extended his flightpanels without being asked, locking them out and standing perfectly still while waiting for Ratchet to scan him. He was obviously used to how Medics worked, which made a nice change from the absolute idiots Ratchet had been dealing with for the past several million years.

A full run of diagnostic scans with his inbuilt tools –much more efficient than the clinic’s equipment- revealed no _major_ internal damage but Wing had somehow managed to compromise the integrity of several main support struts on the side that had taken the brunt of the impact. A great deal of Wing’s fluid lines were showing strain from the way his frame had been forced to compensate for the damage during the last seconds of flight.

“You managed quite a good save on that landing.” Ratchet commented absently, gesturing to the jet to get up on the circuit slab. “I would expect more abrasions from this damage pattern.”

Given permission to move Wing as he walked stiffly to the one circuit slab the multi-species clinic possessed. His Field contained a level of self-satisfied pride at the implied compliment to his skills that Ratchet figured was probably typical Flightframe Ego. _Somehow_ the jet still managed to make his skirting panels clink and slide over each other in a very pleasing manner despite his injuries. He was taking his time and definitely favouring the injured side.

“We have two options, so far as treatment is concerned.” Ratchet said, deliberately turning his back on the slowly-moving jet and moving to the tool storage. “It’s been a fairly slow day, barring any major accidents there shouldn’t be any demand for a Cybertronian specialist today so I could sort you out in one go. If you have somewhere you need to be I can repair the worst of the damage now and you can schedule an appointment to take care of the rest within the next two days.”

Ratchet spared Wing a warning glance, optics cycling wide at the sight of the lithe Knight sprawled comfortably face-down on the circuit slab. He hadn’t even heard him climb up on the slab!

“No longer than two days, mind you.” Ratchet reset his vocaliser, clearing the hint of static from his voice. “Then the local authorities will suspend your flight permits until you receive medical clearance.”

Wing’s noise of indignation made Ratchet smile at a welder unit and roll his optics.

_Typical flyers._

“I would prefer to get full repairs today, if it’s possible.” Wing sounded annoyed, probably at himself. “I don’t want Drift to have an unfair advantage when we spar.”

“Suit yourself.”

Ratchet sent an internal comm to reception, advising them of the change to his schedule. He had everything he needed on-hand so he turned to regard Wing with a raised optic ridge. The jet was propped up on his elbows, helm turned to watch Ratchet with a faint smile tugging at his mouthplates and warming his yellow optics.

“It will be much easier for me to remove the damaged armour and flightpanel segments for repair than attempting to straighten them out while they’re still attached to you.” Ratchet said, ignoring the smile. “I can put you into stasis or place medical overrides on your sensornet that will leave you conscious but unable to move or feel pain while I do so.” Wing’s little smile twitched into something appraising as he continued. “ _Normally_ I would put you into stasis since it’s disturbing to have flight surfaces removed, but going with what you told me the other day I understand if you want to stay conscious.”

So Wing wouldn’t misinterpret what he meant Ratchet relaxed the hold on his EM Field that was second-nature and let the impression of _Syngnath/Incubator_ brush against the outer layers of Wing’s Field. By doing so he let the Ovaria know that this place was ‘safe’ to a certain extent and they could relax the constant vigilance. At least, they didn’t have to monitor their Fields and could be a little freer in their speech.

“Thank you, I would prefer to stay conscious if you’d let me.” Wing’s voice was full of quiet gratitude. “The medics of my home city never really understood why.”

The Ovaria’s field reached out to engage with Ratchet’s, full of old worry and stress that made the Incubator’s Spark twist in its chamber. Despite his injuries Wing’s armour was clamped tight to his frame, trying to protect vulnerable internal systems. Ratchet responded to the obvious signs of distress by filling his Field with a level of understanding and safety that wasn’t entirely professional. Over the course of the war he’d come to know all too well what it was like to be put under while knowing that those you loved and trusted wouldn’t hesitate to offline you if they discovered what you were while you were helpless to stop them; far safer to stay conscious so you were able to react if the worst happened.

“I can’t imagine they would. Most people get squeamish watching other people get fixed up, let alone observing their own surgery.” The Incubator said aloud, moving back over to the circuit slab to place a comforting hand on Wing’s shoulder nacelle. “I’m going to need to remove flight surfaces, which can do weird things to flightframes. If you feel like you’re about to freak out, let me know and I can knock you out for the rest of the surgery.”

“I think I should be alright, Knights have to strengthen their mind and will before bonding to a Greatsword,” Wing sounded faintly amused. “I appreciate the offer, though.”

Ratchet filled his Field with as much _protection/safety_ as he could, spreading it over the injured jet like a mantle.

After several minutes Wing’s frame relaxed; armour loosening and Field filling with calm and thanks. Ratchet had to fight the urge to stay like that, quiet and almost at peace for the first time in longer than he could recall. The Ovaria’s Field was gentle, almost shy as they slid towards full social Field merge.

“Alright, I’m going to disable pain sensors and most motor relays so you won’t thrash around and screw up my welds.” Ratchet said.

The words were sharp but his tone stayed soft.

“Go ahead.” Wing responded easily, opening the medical ports at the base of his helm before Ratchet could ask him.

What quickly became obvious to Ratchet was that he definitely wasn’t used to working on a conscious patient any more. Wing’s Field was distracting; the rich Ovaria resonance enough on its own without the way it followed and responded to fluctuations in his own Field as he worked. When he didn’t need to focus all his attention on the more finicky jobs Wing engaged him in conversation. Another rare novelty he missed without realising it.

It was almost like being back in his Medbay again, surrounded by other Autobots and friends who helped make hard work feel lighter. They all knew that the mechs they worked on would be back on the operating table in a few short weeks at best so perfected the art of living in the moment, not thinking about the next skirmish, the next injury or the next death until they absolutely had to.

_That only works for so long, and then you have to find other ways to cope_.

Wing noticed every time Ratchet’s mood started to darken and pulled him smoothly out of it with travel stories and silly little anecdotes of his own training. Naturally, Ratchet had to retaliate with some of the things he’d gotten up to during his medical studies. If Wing’s motor control hadn’t been disabled he probably would have fallen off the circuit slab after one particular story told in a deadpan tone with sound effects provided  by Ratchet’s mallet and the crumpled flightpanel casing.

_I’ve missed this_.

He had to stop working several times when his own laughter threatened the steadiness of his hands. They communicated just as much through EM Fields as they did with words. There was no way Ratchet could miss the complex flash of emotion whenever a certain white speedster was mentioned.

“There’s no delicate way to ask I’m going to be blunt.” Ratchet decided to bite the bullet and just ask. “You and Drift, you’re Sparkbonded, yes?”

## ~V~V~V~V~V~

“It’s a little unusual.” Ratchet added, acting as if it was a casual observation when they both knew it wasn’t

Wing kept his sigh to himself.

He knew the question would come up eventually but he hadn’t quite believed Drift when he’d warned the jet about just how little patience Ratchet had for dodging around a subject; especially when the subject in question had the potential for affecting medical issues.

_It must be a Medic thing._

“Yes, we are.’ Wing said carefully, watching intently for Ratchet’s reaction to what he was about to say. “We never intended to become intimate, let alone bond.”

Ratchet’s armour twitched inwards slightly, his Field flinching. Something bright and hard shooting through the Incubator resonance before the rest of Wing’s words sank in. Curiosity and a sort of sardonic amusement filled the Field before Wing could analyse the last traces of that brief surge, probably a response to something Wing’s subglyphs had triggered in Ratchet’s memory banks.

“Life has a habit of playing tricks on mechanisms,” The Incubator observed neutrally, carefully fitting the freshly straightened armour sections back over repaired substructure. “May I ask how it happened?”

Settling into story-telling mode, Wing went back to the start and gave Ratchet a brief outline of what allowed a Cybertronian to bear a Greatsword. Ratchets his medical knowledge would allow him to understand more of the implications of being ‘spirit-bound’ to Aequitas than the local sentients really grasped. With that out of the way Wing then launched into Drift double-crossing of Turmoil and the slave traders to save new Crystal City; praising the other Ovaria for his actions as nobody had been willing to at the time.

Wing’s repairs were done long before his story finished. Ratchet was an extremely attentive listener, even asking questions about mecha in New Crystal City Wing hadn’t thought he would know. By the time his tale reached the climactic battle outside the newly unearthed Crystal City Wing was perched on the edge of the circuit slab, carefully testing the functionality of the repaired flight surfaces at Ratchet’s direction.

Wordless support cradled Wing as he recounted lying on the desert sands with his Spark guttering, watching Drift take up Aequitas and using the Greatsword to cut down the slaver who’d harmed Wing. It was extremely gratifying to feel vicious satisfaction in the Incubator’s field when he heard of Braid’s death.

After annihilating his foe Drift had turned, pressed the massive gem in Aequitas’ hilt to Wing’s Spark chamber and poured his own life-force through it into the older Ovaria, keeping him online just long enough for Crystal City medics help to arrive and stabilise his failing Spark.

Then something had gone wrong.

Aequitas had taken control from Drift when he started to falter. Once Drift started trying to unravel his new-born bond to the Greatsword Aequitas had rebelled, binding the Sparks of the two Ovaria together while retaining its primary allegiance to Wing. Drift had fought the Sword viciously through every step of the process, unwilling to let Aequitas take their freedom of choice from either of them.

It was a futile effort.

When the battle of wills between Drift and Aequitas ended The Greatsword had returned to Wing and left the two Ovaria permanently joined.

Despite his growing trust in the medic Wing decided not to mention that Drift had incurred a lasting punishment for his defiance. He didn’t need to know that Aequitas had deliberately taken too much from Drift’s Spark.

While Drift would continue to function and could expect a normal lifespan his Spark would never flare strongly enough during overload to create Newsparks. He simply didn’t have the capacity for that much energy output any more, not even in a merge with a willing partner.

If Drift ever reached physical maturity he would never bear a viable clutch.

Wing let Ratchet think that the pain in his Field was for his close brush with death and having the choice of who to bond with stolen from him. He accepted the comfort offered and bowed to post-surgery medical restrictions with good grace, scheduling a follow-up appointment with the receptionist before wandering slowly back to _Chushingura_ on foot.

Drift was waiting for him outside the ship, patently unimpressed with his recklessness.

“So? How long do you have to stay out of the air for?” Drift asked over their evening fuel, obviously enjoying Wing’s discomfort.

“One local week.” The jet sighed, swirling his fuel around.

He glared at Drift when the Ovaria laughed; looking up from the enriched medical blend he’d been given to scowl across the table.

“What? It’s not funny!” Wing snarled and fluffed his armour out.

He was already frustrated with himself for the rookie mistake, being forced out of the air by his own stupidity was more than enough punishment without Drift rubbing it in.

“No, it’s not.” Drift agreed quickly, apology flowing from his end of the bond. “I was thinking that even though he doesn’t know it Ratchet has given us a really good opportunity here.”

Wing stopped short, biting his glossa on an angry retort. It took him a moment to redirect his processors from the prospect of being grounded and onto the subject Drift referred to. While waiting for the appropriate threads came to the fore he took a long swallow of energon.

“You _are_ a sneaky one, Drift.” Wing said appreciatively. “What did you have in mind?”

The younger Ovaria leaned forward and began to outline his plan, drawing invisible diagrams on the table with a fingertip to illustrate his words. The emotional surges Wing had gotten from Ratchet during the afternoon only lent urgency to their scheming and rendered some of Drift’s original ideas unusable. Even working together it took them the rest of the evening and well into the night cycle to refine the plan, but by the time they were finished the Ovaria felt that they had something that might just work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was a GENUINE accident. Wing might have been working on some stunts he hasn't done in... far too long >.


	6. Rumination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ratchet wakes from a nightmare and reflects on the events that have brought him to this place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok this is an exposition-y chapter that deals with how and why Ratchet started self-harming and suicidal thoughts.  
> WILL BE TRIGGERING.
> 
> Two songs to loop for this chapter are '[Conturbatio](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VSv72WXL4k8)' by Kajiura Yuki and '[Tessa](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j4KBXWDLLzI)' by Steve Jablonsky

# Six

Energon-stained images pursued Ratchet out of a disturbed recharge. his horrified shout still echoing from the walls of his berthroom when he snapped online. His ventilation system whined and struggled, sucking in massive amounts of air to cool his internals. He sat on the edge of his berth and scrubbed at his faceplates with shaking hands, waiting for his cooling systems to do their job and trying to force away the grisly images still circling his processors.

 _It’s just a dream. Pull yourself together, Ratchet_.

He was dreaming of reality, though. That was the worst part of it.

Past events twisted together in horrible new ways to torture him all over again. Memory dumps of the worst parts of his life combined into action sequences that brought his combat protocols roaring online right in the middle of much-needed rest.

 _I shouldn’t even_ have _those protocols._

Ratchet shut the combat protocols down ruthlessly. They were another reminder of just how badly damaged he was, of how far he’d fallen from the mech who lived to heal and had risked the Senate’s wrath to do so. One hand covered his optics while the other fell to his thigh, resting on a piece of armour that hid the most recent addition to his private tally of failure. His Medic and Incubator coding were twisting into a horrible mess, seeking ways to cope and survive in a situation they were never created to deal with. Despite the pain he still couldn’t bring himself to voluntarily offline in order to escape, not when they had so few medics left. The thought of dying when he could still function well enough to help others made his Spark rebel.

 _Can’t say it’s not tempting, though_.

Officially he was on a temporary leave of absence, Prime ordering him to take a vacation on this planet before he worked himself into an early grave. It was far away enough that he wouldn’t risk Decepticon capture or being recalled early unless something truly dire happened. Ratchet volunteered at the multi-species medical practice to have something to do and they let him, glad to have someone on hand who was capable of restraining the odd dangerous patient without risking injury.

The truth of his situation was far more difficult for him to swallow and would mean the end of his career if it got out.

 _I’m_ broken, _that’s what_.

He snorted bitterly through his vents, a bad habit he’d picked up somewhere and never bothered to get rid of. If anyone learned _why_ he was all the way out here instead of with the Autobots where he belonged they’d treat him like the useless, ruined, broken thing he was. They’d be constantly nagging at him, watching his every move. Never a private moment to relax, there would be someone dogging his steps every moment of the day. They’d saddle him with the easiest repairs for fear of what would happen if he lost another patient.

He’d certainly never be allowed near a battlefield triage station again, that’s for sure.

Ratchet’s hand shook against his leg and he clenched it into a fist, slamming it into the edge of his berth. Damage notices popped up and he dismissed them with a snarl.

_It would probably for the best, anyway. Less chance of me killing someone else with my decisions._

Coding howled at the reminder, rising up in a sickening wave to punish him for having ending life by his actions instead of nurturing it. Faces of dead and dying mecha flashed before his optics, those too far gone to save. He remembered them all.

Lurching to his feet the Incubator staggered from his berthroom, making it to the washracks just in time to purge his tanks violently into the drain. Guilt twisted Ratchet’s Spark and he sank to his knees, staring at the dully glowing splatters on the floor.

He felt so utterly miserable that for a moment he briefly considered giving in to the relentless pressure of his Incubator coding and contacting Wing and Drift, laying everything before them and begging them to help. His Syngnath nature urged him to seek the support of his own kind. In fact, in this instance Ratchet wouldn’t even need to beg. All he’d have to do is invoke that stupid life-debt nonsense of theirs and the Ovaria would _have_ to help him

 _No, I can’t drag them into this mess_.

Ratchet sighed and got to his feet, rinsing the purged energon down the drain with the handheld showerhead. It was incredibly seductive, being near Ovaria again. Their Fields whispered promises of care and support that he longed to immerse himself in. He wanted to be valued again. Not just for being the Autobot CMO or a skilled fighter or a fearless battlefield medic, but for just being _Ratchet_. Not for the bits and pieces that made up his disguise but for the totality of who and what he was.

It would never happen.

No matter how much he ached to reach out to Kin, Ratchet wouldn’t let himself drag the pair into the Pit-forsaken mess his life had become. Leaving the washracks he wandered into the living area of his apartment, mulling the situation over. Temptation rose again and he shoved it aside.

He just _wasn’t_ going to get them involved in his mess.

Drift and Wing were far younger than Ratchet; beautiful and strong and fast with the entire universe before them. They deserved better than getting mixed up with some broken, useless old Incubator who was buckling under the mindless brutality of war.

_They deserve better._

Ratchet had no doubts at all that the pair would be welcomed by any clan, despite Drift’s history. Perhaps even _because_ of it. The mind-boggling resilience and ability to survive that the young Ovaria had demonstrated were highly prized traits among Syngnathi anywhere. No matter where they went, Wing and Drift would have every unattached Incubator and probably many who were already pair-bonded courting them.

He couldn’t take that away from them.

_Don’t even go there. As soon as you’re declared fit you’re going to be back on the front lines, putting mechs back together so they can go out and get slagged again._

Pain lanced outwards from his Spark and Ratchet inhaled sharply, struggling against motor controls that threatened to seize up on him. He slowly folded himself down onto the Cybertronian-sized couch that was large enough to comfortably seat a Tankformer or allow himself to sprawl properly in his true form.

It hurt.

Healing was his duty, his calling, his _life_. Putting mechs back together so they could go out to be killed felt like a betrayal of everything his was.

_But I have no other choice._

He had precisely two options.

The first was to continue as he was doing, turning himself and his coding inside out in an attempt to obey the combined desires of that coding and the Spark that powered his frame.

The other option was to let the internal conflict offline him and doom the mechs who would wind up injured with one less medic to heal them.

Ratchet let his superiors think there was a third option. That he could rest and heal, learn to deal with the internal conflict in a less destructive way and return fresh and eager to face the endless flood of dead, dying and wounded. He would never be able to hide his true state of mind from a psychiatric specialist, if they ever found one. There had been someone, once. Another Syngnath who would understand the additional problems he faced when it came to their species.

 _He vanished around the same time Shockwave was taken. I hope he died quickly, if he was captured too_.

While he was acknowledged as deadly in battle when pressed to fight, each mech he was personally responsible for offlining left a permanent mark on Ratchet’s Spark.

_I should be able to do it._

For all that Incubators were larger and more physically intimidating than Ovaria, they did _not_ kill. It took extreme circumstances to force them to do so, and usually it was unless it was in in defence of the nest and Kin. Their large, strong frames were reinforced to protect the gestation/maturation chamber and provide extra space to store the metals and minerals required for gestating a clutch of eggs. Their claws were large and couldn’t be retracted, able to pierce and tear with enough strength behind them, but essentially useless as cutting weapons.

The only way Ratchet could bring himself to kill was by convincing his coding that somehow this counted as defence of Nest and Kin (even though he could very well be offlining other Syngnath to protect those who would happily kill them both). Doing this removed his inhibitions and sharpened his senses long enough to eliminate the immediate danger and survive the battle. Unfortunately this trick didn’t lasted longer than the fight and when the battle was over he paid dearly. Guilt and regret and self-hatred that swamped him the instant he stopped moving, mental agony that only grew worse as time went on.

The first time Ratchet discovered that physical pain helped him deal with the mental and emotional torture he’d been removing shrapnel from his own leg after a particularly nasty battle that had devolved into hand-to-hand combat before it was over. He was the only medic available and needed all four limbs in working order to save his comrades. As the Incubator was operating on himself he couldn’t deaden his sensornet without slowing the procedure and risk losing more lives. The faces of the mechs he’d killed hung in his mind as he cut into protoform and welded the wounds closed afterwards.

 _Somehow_ the physical pain quietened the fury of his inexorably warping code. As a distraction from it or an appropriate penance for killing, Ratchet wasn’t sure which. He quickly stopped caring so long as it helped him cope with what the war was doing to him. When mending his own injuries without pain relief wasn’t enough anymore he had taken his scalpels and inbuilt welder to his own protoform in a fit of desperation and found relief that way.

He knew it wasn’t healthy but it kept him functional.

Right now functional was all that mattered.

He didn’t dare think of anything else.

 _How will I_ ever _convince an Ovaria that I’m not a danger to sparklings and that I’m only a danger to myself?_

It was slowly getting worse, too. He was forced to admit that to himself after a particularly horrible battle where his triage decisions lead to the guttering of a dozen sparks. Afterwards he’d burned his remorse so deeply into his protoform that the scars were still half an inch deep.

Ratchet leaned his helm against the back of the couch, staring blankly up at the empty ceiling of his apartment. He pressed his palm to the plating hiding the most recent self-inflicted injuries, rubbing in careful circles. This wasn’t a good way to live, but when it came to surviving what the war was doing to him he really had no other options. Ratchet sighed though his vents, optics searching the ceiling as if it held an answer for him.

_What the frag am I going to do?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updating the fic tags and the warning for this chapter to include suicidal thoughts.  
>  _Why do I keep forgetting that that kind of shit ISN'T normal?!?_


	7. Preliminary Manoeuvres

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drift starts to put operation 'Figure out WTF is up with Ratchet' into action.  
> Wing's little modifications to the plan lead them to an unexpected outcome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Sparkbond Speak]

# Seven

Drift took a few moments to cycle his vents and settle himself before putting his hands to the Commstation keyboard and using the local telecommunications network to place a call to Ratchet. It wasn’t as efficient as the Cybertronians’ own internal systems but Wing insisted that this was the proper way to do things. The jet was with him, sitting just out of the camera’s field of view, silently supporting Drift with his presence.

Even Drift knew that spying on a conversation wasn’t proper but he wasn’t going to argue.

The Ovaria had worked this out together and decided that Drift needed to be the one to talk to Ratchet. They had known each other longer and hoped that Ratchet’s past willingness to help the young gutter punk would extend to personally helping the Ex-Decepticon and his friend find accommodation instead of simply passing them along to a local travel agent. Kin responsibility might move the Incubator to help if Wing was the one to ask, but the chances of Ratchet personally helping them find a hotel or something were greatly increased by Drift being the one to contact him.

[This is kinda manipulative, Wing] Drift sent through their Bond, guilt worming in his Spark.

[I know.] Wing was subdued.

Ratchet would be able to see who was calling. It was his decision whether or not to answer.

Drift could always leave a message.

There was a warning chirp and _Chushingura’s_ Comm.Station flickered to life, Ratchet’s helm and shoulders appearing in the viewscreen. Drift couldn’t control the way his armour clamped to his frame in shock at the image on the screen. Wing responded instantly to the distressed flare of his EM Field with a wave of comfort and placed a hand on his thigh where the camera wouldn’t pick it up. He found the physical contact comforting when confronted with the viewscreen.

Ratchet looked absolutely exhausted.

His enamel was scuffed and distinctly faded, like he was stressing his frame to the point where his self-repair had shunted the maintenance of his finish right to the lowest priority spot on the queue. There were new stress lines in the flexible dermal metal of his faceplates and the Incubator’s optics were dimmer than they should have been, flickering slightly as they adjusted focus. Drift didn’t think he would have even noticed that if he hadn’t spent so long re-memorising the older Syngnath’s features the other day.

“What?” Ratchet demanded, giving Drift a hard look.

Drift forced his plating to relax and shook himself slightly.

“Nothing,” He said defensively, “I, um, wasn’t actually expecting you to pick up.”

The sound of a Cybertronian sigh came though the speakers and Ratchet rolled his optics.

“Alright, I’ll give you that.” His vocalisation was sharp. “So what’s he done this time?”

“What?” Drift was baffled.

“ _Wing_.” Ratchet said the other Ovaria’s name with a touch of exasperation. “I know Flyers. The only reason you’d be calling me at home _before_ his scheduled follow-up appointment would be because he’s gone and done something stupid to stress those repairs.”

Drift cycled his optics, all the pieces falling into place. Wing _had_ put up with his forced grounding remarkably well, but if he’d re-injured himself they would have called the Clinic during working hours, not contacted Ratchet during his off-time like this.

_But he doesn’t know that, I guess._

“No, Wing’s fine.” Drift said quickly, trying to reassure the tired mech. “Actually I was wondering if you could help us with something.”

“What?” Ratchet immediately became wary, what armour Drift could see flattening slightly.

It hurt to see. He could tell Wing felt the same as he did; both their meshed Fields and the bond resonated with shared concern.

_How many have asked him to do things he didn’t want to do but couldn’t say no to?_

“Well, since we’ve got to hang around long enough for Wing to get the all-clear we figured it would be a good idea to do some of the repairs _Chushingura_ needs done as well.” Drift hurried to explain. “Problem is, they need be done in dry-dock, so we can’t stay onboard while they happen. I was kinda hoping you could point us in the direction of a hotel or something that could handle Cybertronians that wouldn’t rip us off too badly.”

Confusion flashed across Ratchet’s faceplates and Drift wished they were speaking face-to-face so he could feel what was going on in the Incubator’s Field.

“Is Wing there?” Ratchet asked.

“Um, yeah hang on.” Drift motioned at Wing to move around. He confused and a little put out that Ratchet hadn’t even answered his question, just immediately asked for Wing. “He’s right here.”

[He looks rough.] Drift warned the jet through their bond.

He felt Wing’s caution as he stood and come within range of the comm. station camera; joining Drift directly in front of the communications terminal When Wing saw the medic on the screen a jolt of shock raced through his field that he somehow kept out of his faceplates and frame language. Ratchet raised an optical ridge at the jet, giving him a glare that was somehow just as intimidating through the Comm. suite as it would have been in person.

“You’re not getting Drift to cover for you, are you?” Ratchet challenged before Wing could even open his mouth. “If you are I swear I’ll remove your turbines and use them as a footrest until you’re medically sound again.”

Between that spiel of pure Army CMO authority and Wing’s reaction of horrified innocence Drift couldn’t help himself; he exploded into gales of laughter, clutching his vents and leaning his head on the edge of the communications terminal. Just when he thought he was getting himself back under control Ratchet’s dry snorting sound and Wing’s offended Field set him off again. The nervous tension Drift had been trying to throttle for the last few hours bled out of him as the laughter forcibly reset several systems. Eventually he managed to push himself upright again, wheezing and wiping optical lubricants from his faceplates.

“I’m sorry Ratchet, Wing; but that was _priceless_.” Drift’s words crackled around the edges. “Dai Atlas used to threaten him with something similar all the time, except you’d actually _do_ it.”

There was a little smile hovering around the edges of Ratchet’s mouthplates that made Drift’s Spark spin a little faster. He could heard his mate’s flightpanels rustle with interest and resolved to tease Wing about it later.

“I would.” Ratchet’s subglyphs were eloquent as to how little remorse he’d feel for doing so. “So you’re both looking for a place to stay while your ship is in drydock?”

“Yes.” Wing said, since Drift was hiccupping silently with a fresh spate of giggles. “At the moment it looks like we’ll need accommodation for two or three local weeks. Do you know anywhere that would suit?”

Drift calmed down as Ratchet thought. He seemed to be giving the request far more consideration than he thought it was worth. How hard could it be to call up a list of hotels that could handle Cybertronians? It’s not like there would be very many. He reached out to Wing with a sense of worry. The older Ovaria took his hand and squeezed gently, projecting confidence in the situation that Drift felt was rather unwarranted. Just when Drift was about to prompt the medic he seemed to make up his mind.

“There isn’t anything here capable of handling Cybertronians for the length of time you’re looking at.” The Incubator said briskly, “This apartment’s more than big enough that two more frames wouldn’t be an issue. You can both take one of the spare rooms for recharge and another for whatever Knight stuff you need to do. We can sort out something out for board or whatever when you know how long the repairs will take. Does that suit?”

Triumph filled Wing’s Field and spilled through the Bond, making Drift jump.

“What? Ratchet, we didn’t mean _that_ ,” Drift spluttered, ignoring Wing’s warning squeeze of his hand. “We still owe you, it’d be _wrong_ to impose on you like this.”

“That’s why I said _‘board’_ you twit.” Ratchet snapped, armour bristling. His vocal harmonics sent guilt right through the speedster. “This planet simply isn’t equipped to deal with our kind for anything more than a night or two if you don’t have your own place to stay.”

Drift shrank before the medic’s wrath.

_What the frag is wrong with me?! I took on Turmoil head-to-head but all Ratchet has to do is grouch at me over comms and I just roll over like a kicked turbopup!_

“This is extremely generous of you, Ratchet.” Wing said, shifting to put a little of his own frame in between Drift and the viewscreen. “Thank you. I promise we’ll try to disrupt your life as little as possible.”

Ratchet made another of those weird snorting noises.

“At least this way I can make sure you don’t strain those repairs and Drift gets a proper check-up while you’re here, too.” The Incubator said, unable to completely hide that he was pleased they’d accepted. “Get in touch with me when you know when you’ll be needing the room.”

They ended the call and Drift held his peace long enough to completely shut down the communications terminal before rounding on the thoroughly elated jet.

“You _knew_ he’d do that, didn’t you.” He said accusingly.

“Do what?” Wing was a picture of perfect innocence from questioningly tilted helm to shiny white pedes.

“That he’d say we could stay at his place.” The speedster snarled, flexing his hands. “You _knew_ and you didn’t tell me.”

“It was a possibility,” Wing admitted. He brought his own hands up pleadingly as Drift’s engine snarled, “I didn’t _know_ he’d do it for certain, honest.”

“You still thought there was a chance that he might, though. So you pushed me to call to make sure he would. That’s low, Wing.” Drift’s hands were fisted at his sides as he struggled to control his anger by venting in long, slow cycles. “It’s… wrong. It’s _everything_ they accused me of being, back in Crystal City.”

“I know.” Wing said, keeping his hands raised but shifting his frame subtly to a more defensive posture. Drift saw, optics tracking every twitch the jet made. “It was dishonest, and I _will_ do penance for it.”

Rising behind Wing’s head, the massive gem in Aequitas’ hilt flickered ominously.

“Good.” Drift snapped, brushing past Wing as he stormed from the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know what happened here. I really don't. One minute everything was fine THEN IT FUCKING EXPLODED and the plot wouldn't budge without the fight. Fucking. Greatswords. I'm blaming them. They SERIOUSLY want Wing to be pure and holier-than-thou.  
> And Ratchet really hasn't been looking after himself.


	8. Cohabitation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Ovaria move in with Ratchet while their ship is in drydock and everyone is pleasantly surprised by how well things go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of time-condensing happening here.   
> Enough time has passed before the move so that Wing is flightworthy and the rest of the chapter covers about two weeks or so.  
> This is the last happy chapter for a long time. Make the most of it.

#  Eight

Wing’s entire frame was stiff and his healing wounds throbbed persistently. It was an annoying background constant in his processors as the jet finished negotiations with the ship refit and repair facilities to drydock _Chushingura_ for repairs.

His penance had been relatively mild, but spending a local night cycle kneeling in contemplation while holding Aequitas upright had been more difficult than he’d thought it would be. With nothing to distract him the dull background throb of his injuries had risen to a scream that dominated his entire consciousness by the time midnight rolled around. He spent the last half of the night with his vocaliser offline, listening to his armour plates clack against each other as he trembled from the force of it.

But no matter how badly his frame ached, Drift’s angry words hurt more.

Their echoes hung in the silence between the Ovaria as they packed.

Making peace with Aequitas was relatively easy. Wing carried out the penance his Greatsword demanded and went on with life a little wiser for the lesson.

It was harder with Drift.

_Much_ harder.

Wing felt that Drift’s accusations had been a little extreme. Since Aequitas apparently agreed with Drift, Wing didn’t bring it up even though Drift probably expected him to. As their two day grace period for packing passed the distance between them got wider.  Every time Wing thought he knew what to say to bridge the gap something would change and the words would lose all meaning.

From what he could tell Drift wasn’t having much better success at dealing with the silence, either. Their Bond was muted but Wing could still feel tension in the younger mech’s Field when they were within sensing range. Every now and then something would leak through and they would almost – _almost_ \- reconnect only to step back at the last moment. They didn’t trade more than a dozen words throughout the entire process of prepping Chushingura for drydock and sorting their belongings for storage. Wing knew it would be bad form for them to subject Ratchet to the emotional fallout of their disagreement but he just couldn’t get his glossa to work, more than a little afraid of accidentally saying the wrong thing and angering Drift again.

In the end it was Drift who finally broke the silence.

It was the day before they were supposed to move into the empty rooms of Ratchet’s apartment. The Ovaria were sitting in _Chushingura_ ’s kitchen, consuming their evening fuel when he nudged Wing’s Field with a sense of apology.

“I’m sorry I snapped at you the other day.” Drift said, struggling to meet the jet’s optics. “I overreacted. ‘M sorry”

He looked so obviously uncomfortable that Wing had to suppress the urge to reassure him that it was alright. Ianus was clearly visible, hilt rising behind Drift’s head and the Greatsword’s massive gem seemed to pulse in the light when Drift shifted on the bench. Wing extended his Field, brushing Drift with acceptance and his own apology.

“I am as well, for my actions. I should have asked Ratchet outright.” Wing honestly couldn’t think of anything more to say.  

Drift seemed happy to let the subject drop so the Ovaria finished their fuel in silence. Unlike the suffocating awkwardness of the past few days this was a comfortable silence filled with slowly meshing Fields. When they were done Wing wandered straight to the berthroom as usual fuel while Drift detoured through the washracks for a quick rinse. Wing was standing in the middle of the berthroom giving their nest a sad look when he heard Drift enter. He turned, hesitantly holding out his arms and was more relieved than he could express when the speedster embraced him.

They made the most of their last night of privacy aboard ship. Neither of them was looking forward to dismantling their cozy nest of blankets and trying to re-make it at Ratchet’s place. It was _hard_ to make a nest that felt this secure.

The move itself went smoothly enough, apart from a brief kerfuffle when Ratchet tried to help them transport their gear to his apartment. Despite how obviously drained he was Ratchet still insisted on trying to help until Wing and Drift put their pedes down and flat-out refused to allow him to help.

As Drift predicted to him over the Bond Ratchet took this rather badly. It took all of Wing’s tact and a great deal of verbal fancy footwork to keep the entire undertaking from starting off on the wrong foot. When Wing very pointedly reminded Ratchet of his ‘duty’ as their host he finally gave in and stomped off grumbling low in his vocaliser. Wing breathed a sigh of relief when he did, catching Drift doing the same out of the corner of his optics. They shared a conspiratorial smile behind the Incubator’s bristling back; snickering over the insults they were obviously meant to overhear. It wasn’t anything against Ratchet himself, it was simply that the Ovaria didn’t want Ratchet to further exhaust himself doing something they were perfectly capable of doing themselves.

[I think he likes us.] Wing sent gleefully, unable to hide just how much the thought thrilled him.

[Really?] Drift sounded unconvinced as he folded into altmode for the last trip back to _Chushingura_. [I know he’s nice under all the grump but you don’t talk like that to people if you _actually_ like them, right?]

Wing broadcast amusement as he shot up into the air.

[I think if you’re a medic who spends centuries watching your friends go out onto the battlefield to come back wounded or dying I think it would be safer to show affection like this.] The jet said thoughtfully as he navigated the air traffic. [Getting angry instead of being sad would be less damaging to your Spark in the long run. And besides, did you see his face?]

[Oh, so I wasn’t imagining that little smile?] Drift sounded pleased and there was an undercurrent of something else in his words that Wing desperately hoped would grow. [Before the rant started, I mean.]

[You weren’t imagining things. It was _definitely_ there.] The jet reached the ship first and transformed, stretching against the lingering pull of his injuries and waiting for Drift to catch up. [I think this is going to be a fun few weeks.]

As Wing expected, the first few days of settling in at Ratchet’s place were filled with the usual discoveries and compromises of people learning to live together, further complicated by those that were peculiar to their kind.

He and Drift took their cues from Ratchet and allowed Syngnath resonances into Fields and vocalisers within the relative safety of the apartment. The first time Drift had heard Ratchet speak, _truly_ speak, with the full harmonic range of his Syngnathi vocaliser had been memorable. Wing had distracted himself from his own reaction by recording Drift’s expression in as high fidelity as he could manage. It proved to be useful as the jet would replay the memory when he wondered why they were prolonging the stopover instead of returning to _Chushingura_ where they could wear their true forms for more than a few minutes at a time.

To Wing, compared to the centuries of freedom to wander his own home (and much of the Citadel) in his true form, only being able to relax control over voice and Field and _only_ inside the apartment was almost as bad as nothing at all.

Where Wing felt stifled, the other two Syngnathi obviously felt liberated. It was hard not to resent them at times but Wing tried his best to hide how much he hated this aspect of their current living arrangements. _Especially_ when he saw how much Drift –and specifically Ratchet- relaxed when they were able to express themselves to the fullest their kind was capable of while in Cybertronian form.

The entire situation made it even clearer to the jet just _how_ important Dai Atlas’ promise and the goals of New Crystal City were. They were everything and more than the promises Shockwave had recruited Drift with. He meditated on this in the early mornings, dealing with his frustration while he listened to Drift puttering around mixing Energon and straining his audials to pick up the little whistling sounds Ratchets vents made in recharge.

_I wish we didn’t have to hide. I wish Ratchet could see what it’s like to be really free, even just once._

It burned Wing to know that Ratchet had never experienced life free from the ever-present fear of discovery and what it would bring. Not like he had for so long. Not like Drift had towards the end of his time in New Crystal City. For all the horror that filled the life of the younger Ovaria, at least he had known that much.

How much worse had it been for Ratchet, living and working with those more intimately familiar with normal Cybertronian physiology? He would have had to be on guard constantly, the smallest slip even more likely to be caught, even more likely to result in vivisection and worse. This insignificant little change to Field and vocals was likely to be all Ratchet had been able to risk for a very, very long time.

Perhaps it was all he had ever been able to do; Wing just didn’t know.

Wing knew his inability to accept this small freedom from restriction was extremely ungrateful but he knew that life for their kind could be so much _bette_ r than this. He and Blackbird had risked their Sparks for it and then Wing lived it for millennia.

_A hollow victory, if the freedom is only for one being._

He could feel the stress lingering in the Incubator’s Field even with the soothing presence of Kin. The longer he spent around Ratchet and the better he got to know him, the harder it became for Wing to step on the urge to ask him to come with them.

 

## ~V~V~V~V~

 

After nearly two local weeks the Ovaria had become a welcome part of Ratchet’s daily landscape. Simply having them around went a long way towards soothing certain portions of his Incubator coding that had been acting up since long before the war. But even besides that the pair were genuinely nice to be around. Drift was still a little awkward at times but Ratchet had honestly expected it to be much worse than it was.

The day the Ovaria moved in Drift had taken one look at Ratchet’s perfectly adequate fuel supplies and immediately declared that Energon preparation was _his_ responsibility and nobody else was allowed to deal with it as they were all completely incompetent. Ratchet had tried to defend himself while Wing stayed diplomatically silent, letting Drift and Ratchet have their pointless (but mutually enjoyed) argument while he wandered off to unpack.

_Smart thing to do, what with Drift’s favourite method of getting revenge and all._

With Drift taking on the majority of fuel-related tasks, Wing and Ratchet had split the rest of the chores between them and ever since they’d been working together as if they’d been doing so for their entire functioning.

It was rather strange how easily the three of them had fallen into a comfortable routine. Ratchet would have found the whole situation creepy if he and Drift hadn’t both come from a similarly militaristic background and Wing wasn’t so fragging _helpful_. He could swear he’d caught the jet coming dangerously close to doting on him once or twice, but Ratchet knew he was being over-sensitive after the incident that had earned him this little leave of absence.

The pair of Ovaria weren’t just sitting on their afts, either. Within a week of taking over his spare room Wing had managed to secure temporary employment as an intercity courier and Drift got a job at an electronics production factory, basically providing some extra lifting power and taking care of some time-sensitive component deliveries. The Knights didn’t seem to _need_ the work as such but were apparently unwilling to waste their time doing nothing. It was an attitude Ratchet heartily approved of.

Occasionally Wing would be away overnight, delivering somewhere just a little too far to make the round trip in one day. The first time this happened it threatened to become awkward, right up until Drift warily offered to show Ratchet the Earth movie they’d named their ship after. Ratchet hadn’t watched a movie in longer than he could consciously remember so he agreed simply for the novelty. The second time it happened cemented the tradition, Drift and Ratchet spending Wing’s nights away watching movies from all over the galaxy. They would heckle the sillier films; Drift eviscerating improbable or impossible fight scenes while Ratchet mercilessly laid into the characters that didn’t seem to possess a single shred of common sense. When the jet returned he would demand a blow-by-blow dissection of whatever they had watched, the genuine interest in his Field impossible to fake.

Every now and then Ratchet caught himself wishing the pair could stay longer, but he knew as well as they did that their ship would be spaceworthy again the following week. When they were done the Knights would be out from under his pedes and he would be forced to focus on trying and failing to deal with the problems that had brought him to this planet in the first place.

In the meantime Ratchet was quite happy to push those thoughts aside and focus on enjoying the present. Right now he was drinking some strange blend of midgrade and powdered metals Drift had concocted, half-listening to the younger mechs bickering amiably about something unimportant. He looked down at the thoroughly admixed mug of Energon he was slowly savouring and used it to hide a smile at a particularly acidic comment from Drift, taking a slow sip and rolling it over his glossa before swallowing.

_Whatever he put in this, I hope he remember the amounts. It’s_ good _._

It was unbelievably good to have company that didn’t expect him to be Chief Medical Officer Ratchet every waking moment, even if it was just for a short time.

Ratchet cycled his optics and frowned into his mug, realising that it was empty.

_Processor wandering. I’m still too drained._

Wing tossed a comment at him and Ratchet snarked back without thinking, joining the Ovaria’s pointless argument as a willing third party. It was silly and fun and Ratchet felt a little more of the stress drain from his frame as both EM Fields reached out to engage with his. Buoyed by the feel of Kin Ratchet found himself wondering how he’d gone so long without them. It would be nice if they could stay like this. No war, no killing. Just three Syngnathi and maybe a home. The Ovaria had talked about where they’d been living and it sounded too good to be true. Maybe he should check it out, just to make sure it really was safe for them?

That last thought looped, repeating itself several times before Ratchet fully realised what he’d just thought. When it finally sunk in Ratchet excused himself and wandered dazedly towards the kitchen (as it was now called), pretending he didn’t see the worried looks both Ovaria sent his way.

_What have I done?_

Automatically, he rinsed his mug and left it on the bench. Watching the two Ovaria from the corners of his optics he could see the unmistakable little flickers in armour and faceplates that meant they were having a silent discussion over their Sparkbond as well as continuing the debate Wing had tried to include Ratchet in. He stood for a moment, staring at the empty mug and trying to control the uncomfortable combination of fear and yearning pulsing through his Field.

_I can’t let myself get attached._ Especially _not to them._

Ratchet desperately tried to figure out just what had caused his earlier thoughts but his processors were just too sluggish to make much headway. Even though he wasn’t running emergency protocols the data was fuzzy and showed unmistakable signs of fatigue around the edges. Even the careful additions Drift made to all their fuel weren’t enough to counteract the strain of Ratchet’s twisted code and the nightmares that woke him on a regular basis.

_At least I remember to offline my vocaliser before recharge so I don’t wake them up._

Maybe he just having someone else around? The bustle and general background noise of having other Cybertronians around quieted a niggling loneliness Ratchet hadn’t even been consciously aware of. They were a social species, but right now the rest of the Cybertronian race was involved in a brutal war that his commander had temporarily banned him from, so his ability to socialise _was_ rather limited. Unlike company, the resonances of Syngnathi EM Fields – _especially_ that of Ovaria- was something Ratchet knew he would never take for granted.

Speaking of which, the harmonics of Drift and Wing’s voices had changed; their little trash-talking session seemed to have taken a slightly more serious turn. That or the emotions of their Bond conversation were leaking over into their vocal speech.

Ratchet half-listened as he slowly retraced his steps to the main living area; leaning against the doorframe he watched the two younger mechs unintentionally show off their flexibility by sitting cross-legged on the floor as they bickered. He had to hide a smile behind his hand at the way one or the other would occasionally catch themselves mid-sentence, changing what they were about to say.

The younger mechs probably thought they were hiding it a lot better than they actually were. It wasn’t anything to worry about. Despite what everyone seemed to believe arguments did still happen in Sparkbonded pairs. Given what Wing had told him about the circumstances of the Ovaria’s bonding it was surprising that they didn’t fight more often.

Remembering that particular revelation, Ratchet glared at the gem-hilted swords resting snugly against the spinal struts of the young warriors. They were very pretty, massive gems reflecting the light like captive stars but he honestly didn’t trust the things as far as he could throw a Metrotitan.

_It was Wing’s sword. Aequitas or something like that._

The Greatsword seemed to sense his regard, flaring briefly as Ratchet narrowed his optics at it. If he was right the things were at least partially sentient and could actually communicate with their bearers to a limited extent. Humouring his sudden spate of stress-born paranoia Ratchet deliberately shut down all his comms for a moment and thought a single message right at the jewel sparkling serenely in the hilt of Wing’s sword.

_I’m watching you. I’m watching_ both _of you_.

That brief flash could have been an acknowledgement, but was more likely to be a trick of the light as Wing shifted, looking up at him with one of his glorious smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ovaria are great at finding nice nest-building stuff but pretty shit when it comes to actually building a nest.  
> Yes, Ratchet is broody.  
> No, they STILL haven't gotten around to talking about the Life Debt because nobody wants to wreck the fun by bringing it up.   
> No, Drift didn't spike Ratchet's drink.  
> Yes, Wing and Drift were talking about Ratchet.  
> Yes, Aequitas 'heard' Ratchet, no it can't talk to him directly unless he's in contact with it.


	9. An Ill Wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you think you understand quantum physics, there is a good chance you're doing it wrong.  
> Ratchet ends up on the battle lines of a different sort of war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not 100% happy with this one but fuck it I want it out of my face so I can do other things.  
> BE AWARE:  
> This chapter contains descriptions of violent accidental death, references to self harm and inferred suicidal thoughts.
> 
> Suggested listening: Dracarys (Ramin Djawadi), Bare Grace Misery (Nightwish), The Truth Beneath The Rose (Within Temptation)

# Nine

Ratchet’s day began the same as any other on this little backwater rock a million miles from the war.

Well, it began the same as his days had been for the two weeks the Ovaria had been living with him. His internal alarm went off and he shoved himself upright before switching it off, letting himself cycle up to full awareness and taking a few moments to brace himself and compose his EM Field before slowly crawling out of his nestlike berth to face the day.

One of the few good things about being stuck out here was being able to have a proper nest to sleep in, instead of having to make do with a thermal cover or two and the slablike berths that were standard for all Autobots. His rank allowed him to justify a little padding but even after centuries of practice Ratchet still had difficulty recharging on the blasted things.

 _They’re just… not_ right.

As hard as it was to recharge on a standard berth, it was harder to return to policing the content of his EM Field.

Since being dumped out here Ratchet hadn’t had to worry about controlling what he projected on a constant basis and he’d forgotten just how exhausting it was. _Especially_ with the extra attention it needed around these particular houseguests. Syngnathi were much more sensitive to personal EMF fluctuations than full Cybertronians. Hopefully this little ruse of giving his Syngnathi harmonics free reign would lead the Ovaria to assume he wasn’t hiding anything at all.

So far as he could tell it seemed to be working so far.

Drift’s shift started early so he was already gone. When Ratchet wandered into the kitchen he found one covered mug and a pair of neatly labelled flasks waiting on the counter.

_Wing’s up, then._

He picked up the mug Drift had prepared for him and inhaled deeply, trying to figure out what the Ovaria had added before he took a sip. Nothing Drift prepared ever tasted _bad_ as such, but sometimes his choices of additives wasn’t exactly what Ratchet expected first thing in the morning.

Today’s blend was passable, if a little on the tart side. It definitely chased the remaining fog of recharge from his processors. For once Ratchet didn’t linger over the morning fuel as he had started doing recently. There was an Autobot shuttle with wounded due to arrive today and he would need to make sure that he had enough supplies on hand at the Clinic to deal with the list of injuries they’d forwarded to him.

Drift must have added more than was obvious to the Energon he’d left out for Ratchet because he could feel steady warmth spreading from his tank as he transformed and navigated the morning traffic. Internal diagnostics showed the blend promised to burn clean and provide a consistent power output, unlike some that would throw you a sudden burst of energy or burn too fast as the additives reacted with the fuel still in his tanks.

 _The kid’s a genius_.

The day continued as normal until midmorning.

Then everything started to fall apart.

There was an Autobot frigate scheduled to arrive in two days to pick up the shuttle full of wounded Cybertronians. Around the time Ratchet was reviewing the information from said shuttle a message arrived from the frigate saying they were experiencing quantum drive trouble and would be restricted to sublight speeds, delaying their arrival

As soon as he confirmed the length of the delay Ratchet began making arrangements for the care and housing of the injured Autobots. Their shuttle was about to begin its final orbit and approach to land so he figured he had about three hours. Ratchet negotiated on behalf of the Autobots with those hotels capable of supporting Cybertronians to ensure the injured occupants of the approaching shuttle would receive appropriate care until the frigate arrived to pick them up. He was up to his optics in the paperwork this generated when the next blow fell.

The Autobot frigate suddenly popped into orbit, appearing right in the path of several smaller vessels, prompting them into immediate evasive action.

One of those smaller vessels was the shuttle full of Autobot casualties.

Discharge from the Frigate’s damaged quantum drives and the displacement created by their re-entry made an absolute chaos of the communications frequencies for several crucial minutes, leaving everyone on that side of the planet shouting into dead air as they tried to coordinate flightpaths and avoid collisions.

By the time the comm frequencies cleared the damage was done.

The Autobot shuttle had collided with an organic-crewed exploratory vessel.

Initial images that reached the surface showed nothing but a twisted ball of metal, both ships having somehow slammed together broadside. The distinctive colours of electrical and atmospheric fires burned into Ratchet’s horrified optics. Medical protocols took over; numbing his initial reaction and bringing the brutal practicality that prepared him for dealing with the inevitable casualties. Ratchet sank willingly into the emotional buffer provided by his medical protocols.

As he prepared for triage Ratchet deliberately put any thoughts of afterwards out of his mind. He couldn’t _afford_ to think of that right now. He needed every spare processor thread he had to coordinate last-minute changes in the distribution of supplies and ways to smooth the flow of incoming patients with the organic medics in the mish-mash of languages being used and _for Primus’ sake don’t step on anyone!_

Somehow in the middle of the polyglot insanity Ratchet managed to absorb the news that the multiple fires engulfing the wreck had consumed all available oxygen and burned out. The being in charge of the emergency response team decided that the best way to deal with the wrecked ships was to use the spaceport matter-transfer system. The system was used to transfer bulky payloads between the surface and the orbital spaceport and they were going to use it to send the entire wreck down to the planet instead of wasting precious time shuttling medical teams into orbit.

Ratchet very nearly demolished a load-bearing wall when he heard _that_ delightful piece of information.

It was an incredibly risky move that left ‘dangerous’ in the dust and was better described as flat-out _insane_.

When he finally stopped shouting obscenities the being responsible for the decision made their reasoning _very_ clear to Ratchet.

The artificial gravity systems of both ships had sustained heavy damage; their manual shutdowns were no longer functional. The gravitational conflicts within and around the wreck made it unsafe for rescue teams, the only way to get _anyone_ out of either ship alive was to force both artificial gravity systems into shutdown by exposing them to full surface-level planetary gravity. Risking the matter-transport to potentially save _some_ lives was infinitely preferable to losing all of them.

Ratchet and the alien being vented their tension by respectively abusing the stupidity of the plan and defending the necessity of it.

While they shouted at each other the wreck was successfully transported planetside.

They had the briefest possible lull in which to share a sigh of relief before the casualties started to arrive.

Medics from the Autobot frigate were on their way to the surface by shuttle; however the orbital position of the ship meant they wouldn’t arrive until extremely early the next morning.

_There’s only me right now._

The first tangled wreck of a frame that came before Ratchet wasn’t even recognisable as Cybertronian. Ratchet invoked emergency protocols and made his decision; slapping a patch over a gushing line and dropping the mech into medical stasis before directing the large organics in charge of the makeshift gurney towards the appropriate care station. There were other wounded coming and Ratchet couldn’t risk their lives by starting complex surgery on someone most likely doomed. This was the early stages of the disaster, if the mech survived until Ratchet knew they were dealing with then there was a chance he could be saved. If he died –as he probably would- Ratchet knew the unnamed mech’s death would eat at him despite the coding and training that meant it _shouldn’t_.

Not that much, not that badly.

 _And they had wounded on board_ before _the collision. Primus._

The next two weren’t much better off and the fourth suffered catastrophic spark failure just as he was carried into the clinic-turned-emergency hospital. All anyone could do was watch in horror as the mech convulsed, shrieking static as his Spark shifted states to surge outwards through every neural line in his frame as some sort of semi-fluid lightning before guttering out. The electrical and plasmatic discharge added those still in contact with the mech’s gurney to the list of casualties with severe burns and symptoms of electrocution.

_Slag, I should have warned them. I thought they knew!_

That particular kind of Spark failure was a freak accident, a one-in-a-trillion event. What it meant right now was that _nobody_ wanted to risk transporting Cybertronians to the clinic, and Ratchet couldn’t blame them. So he grabbed a medkit, transformed and practically _flew_ to the wreck, sirens screaming. He slid to a stop at the cordon, unfolding from altmode beneath an overcast sky and resetting his chemoreceptors to deal with the onslaught of new information which threatened to overwhelm them.

_Hot metal, boiling internal fluids and… burned organics._

Ratchet –or his medic insignia- were immediately recognised and he was hustled through the barriers. He immediately joined the on-site triage and first aid efforts, his very presence seeming to reassure the rescue team that nobody else would fall victim to freak accidents of Cybertronian biology.

It was absolute carnage.

The next two mechs pulled from the Autobot shuttle were already greying and the third and fourth extinguished within moments of being pulled clear. The final mech freed required the immediate amputation of both legs, but with Cybertronians this wasn’t necessarily a permanent disability. The newly legless mech was actually cracking jokes from the moment his painkillers kicked in. After that Ratchet ignored polite suggestions that he take a breather and immediately put his welders to use cutting into the wreckage.

The Autobot shuttle had held ten mecha. So far he’d only counted nine.

He found the remains of the tenth mech half-slagged and shredded. He had apparently been strapped to a berth along the inner bulkhead and was now almost irretrievably merged with the wall he’d been lying against.

Ratchet staggered from the wreck, shaking his helm. The greyed-out frames of the other dead were lined up neatly near the emergency cordons, helms covered by tarpaulins in some odd funerary custom of the planets indigenous sentient species. His optics passed unseeingly over them. A noise from the wreck reminded him that there were other casualties and he willingly turned to help pull survivors and corpses from the organic ship.

It was better than dwelling on things he couldn’t change.

By the time reinforcements from the frigate arrived Ratchet was running on fumes and emergency medical overrides. He handed over authority to their lead medic and was given a handful of concentrated fuel pellets in thanks. One of the junior medics went so far as to stand over Ratchet, watching making sure he swallowed the fuel before ordering him off-site to rest.

 _That impertinent brat will make a good CMO someday._ If _he survives._

Above all, Ratchet had to maintain his cover story. He couldn’t risk hanging around long enough for any of the medical staff to run a deep-scan and discover his weakness. As soon as he’d swallowed the bitter fuel pellets and extracted a promise that he would be kept abreast of the situation he transformed and slowly joined the exodus of other first responders who were also staggering away from the scene of the emergency to rest.

As he drove through the empty streets Ratchet felt the emergency medical protocols shut down one by one, the buffer between himself and his inevitable reaction slowly eroding. The damaged coding was waiting, stinging as it lurked at the edge of his consciousness.

All Ratchet could do was hope he made it home before the shaking started.

 _Just let me recharge. A few hours of rest is all I’m asking for_.

The lowering clouds had brought night early to this side of the planet and now they blocked out the stars. Ratchet’s headlights showed him the way back to his apartment and he concentrated determinedly on the road in front of him to avoid the images running through his mind in high-speed replay.

_Fresh energon shining slick on greying plating/Half-charred organic impaled on a beam/Whose limb is whose?/Unstable Spark flaring, setting energon alight/Oozing fluids of unknown origin/Is this a bodypart or part of the ship?/Cut this organic free while they can still be saved/Helm crushed, brain module unsalvageable._

With each flash came a surge of guilt and helplessness intensified by the warped code. Instincts to heal, nurture and defend life confronting him with his failure to do so.

The all-too-familiar carnage Ratchet had just been immersed in was so far removed from what his life was currently like that he honestly forgot that the Ovaria were staying with him. He didn’t think to question the outside light being on, letting himself into the apartment and locking the door behind himself with exaggerated care, barely making it to the couch before he collapsed. By this point he no longer cared about the gore caked into seams and slowly drying onto his armour or the warnings on his HUD; all he wanted to do was rest.

To fall into recharge and forget that the last day had ever happened.

 _What a senseless, stupid accident_.

He wasn’t expecting to nearly flatten Drift when he pitched himself over the back of the couch in a well-practiced move, aiming for the cushioned seat. It was possibly one of the worst frights of his entire life, not counting unknown numbers contacting him when Shockwave was in the hands of the Institute.

What was supposed to be a blessed reunion with a soft, immobile surface became a flailing tangle of confusion as Ratchet tried to fight the intruder off and Drift tried to defend himself without injuring the drained and confused Incubator. The clatter and clash of metal on metal was punctuated by shouts until Drift forcibly restrained Ratchet’s arms and overwhelmed the older mech with his EM Field.

All the fight went out of Ratchet as _safe/home/safe/Kin/ **safe**_ engulfed him, surging from Drift’s Field and surrounding his in a wild rush that punched through the confusion of old terror mixed with fresh horror, leaving him instead fighting the desire to simply sink into the promise of Drift’s Field and pass out. With a gargantuan effort Ratchet shook himself out of the clinging tangle of resurgent emergency response coding and battle protocols that were too quick to activate, finally realising that Drift was talking, had been talking to him throughout their brawl.

“Ratchet, Ratchet! You’re safe. It’s me, it’s Drift. You’re _safe_ , Ratchet. It’s ok. Calm the frag down, would you? Ratchet you’re _safe_ , frag-WING!”

The instant Ratchet’s processors caught up with reality he locked his joints and checked his EM Field to ensure Drift hadn’t sensed anything incriminating.

His projections were still purely Cybertronian, mainly alarm/anger/defence.

Heaving a mental sigh of relief Ratchet forced himself to relax and let his Field spread into its proper range, carefully hiding the distress that had been building throughout the day and still threatened to escape his control. He couldn’t, _wouldn’t_ inflict his state on the Ovaria; they would only be here a few more days and he was _not_ going to let his malfunctioning code ruin the last of this precious idyll.

Wing came rushing into the lounge just as Drift finally let go of Ratchet’s wrists. Sheepishly, Ratchet commanded his heavy-duty awl to transform _back into his frame, dammit_. It had emerged at some point during the scuffle and he’d apparently been intent on driving it through Drift’s right optic and into his brain module.

 _Lovely, something_ else _for my code to thrash me with later._

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting there to be anyone on the couch.” His vocaliser rasped as if he’d individually sandblasted the components. Reverting to his real voice didn’t help, either. “First response at the shuttle collision. It was… bad.”

His vents caught as both Ovaria responded with understanding, their Fields twining around his to surround Ratchet with a buttress of perfect safety. Even though he tried to press his appreciation into their Fields he just didn’t have the energy left to do it. Not even with the solidified medgrade pellets dissolving in his tanks.

“No wonder you staggered in here like some B-movie zombie.” Drift said in a voice full of concern, leaping to his pedes and firing off instructions like the commanding officer he used to be. “Wing, you make sure he gets the worst of that crap off his plating without drowning; I’ll put some fuel together and bring it to you.” He pulled the medic to his pedes, surprising Ratchet with the strength hidden in his trim Cybertronian frame. “Everything else can wait until you’ve had some recharge.”

Ratchet tried to protest but was immediately overridden by the combined forces of both Ovaria. All he could do was comply with their wishes and he couldn’t hide the little flash of pride he felt at seeing the mecha Drift had become –was _still_ becoming- under the influence of the jet.

_He’s going to be a force to be reckoned with, one day._

When Ratchet was stable on his pedes Drift let go of his hand, something bright and precious flashing in the speedster’s optics before he was gone and Ratchet started shuffling resolutely towards the washracks with Wing in tow. He didn’t want to see the jet hovering over him, not right now. There wasn’t a trace of anything untoward in the other’s EM Field, just a steady presence of _Kin/Ovaria/safe_ that reassures the Incubator’s fatigue-strained systems.

Suddenly desperate to be rid of the gore drying to his plating, Ratchet walked straight in and switched the cleanser on without bothering to wait for it to warm up first. Wing hung back until it did, giving Ratchet space while he sagged under the solvent spray, flaring his armour to let it flow beneath. Not even Unicron himself could get him to do a thorough armour-removing clean while Wing was there. Tomorrow. He’d do it tomorrow when there was nobody else to witness the shame etched into his protoform.

His hands were clumsy on the brush but Ratchet still insisted on trying to clean himself while Wing helped. The jet was absentmindedly crooning some foreign melody low in his vocaliser while he scrubbed at the grime caking Ratchet’s plating. His Syngnathi vocaliser did lovely things with the song and Ratchet found the overall effect was incredibly soothing.

Wing was efficient and thorough without being unnecessarily rough, somehow making it seem like he was simply helping Ratchet clean his backplates while in reality he was doing the bulk of the work. The humming helped maintain the illusion and Ratchet was soon fighting the desire to recharge right there and then, standing in the washracks with Wing’s Field all around him and Wing’s song buzzing in his audials.

As promised, Drift arrived with a mug of energon so thick with additives Ratchet was surprised it didn’t emerge as a solid mass when he used both hands to raise the mug to his lipplates. The EM Fields of both Ovaria surrounded him again as he let the syrupy stuff slid down his intake, the drying fans blasting him from dripping wet to merely damp.

Under the combined action of a full tank, relative cleanliness and the two Ovaria constantly reinforcing the message of _home/safe_ with their Fields Ratchet barely remained conscious long enough to make it to his nest before he collapsed. The last thing he remembered was two pairs of hands spreading a light thermal blanket over his frame before recharge crashed over Ratchet in a black wave and pulled him down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ending this one on a high note as well, since it's all about to go to hell in a handbasket.
> 
> ~The title for this chapter is from a saying 'It's an ill wind that blows no good', but this disaster will eventually lead to a happy ending.  
> ~Yes, Drift and Ratchet watched B-grade zombie horror movies. And Sean of the Dead.  
> ~'Matter Transfer' is a nod to Douglas Adams. "You've just been through a matter transfer ray, you might have lost some salt and protein"


	10. Secrets Exposed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ratchet has a rough awakening.  
> Drift makes an appalling discovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright my little sweetpotatoes, this is the chapter I've been warning you about. The one where all those nasty tags come into play.  
> Warnings for vomiting, self-harm and associated nastiness. This is your last chance to nope away from the darkness.
> 
> Playlist for this chapter can be found [here](http://adhesivesandscrap.tumblr.com/post/121630720181/love-me-ch10-playlist).

# Ten

Ratchet booted extremely slowly the next morning.

It wasn’t even morning anymore; his chronometer informed him that it was actually past midday, early in the afternoon. The medic’s state of exhaustion at the time of recharge meant his own self-repair system had shut down his internal alarm so he would remain in recharge and it could work undisturbed.

_Frag you too._

He didn’t want to wake up. He wanted to burrow into his nest and drop back into recharge. Something bad was waiting for him, lurking on the edge of full awareness and the moment he crossed that threshold it would pounce.

Instead of recharging or waking up properly he focused on the physical reports from sensornet and HUD, further putting off having to think about whatever it was he was trying to avoid.

Ratchet’s entire frame hurt, specific tool mounts warning him that they’d need a thorough maintenance and tune-up before he used them for anything serious.  There was a distinct feeling of grime deep in his joints and under his armour that seemed odd when he realised that the surface of his plating appeared to be clean.

The aches and gunk were definite signs of an emergency.

A bad one.

His Spark twisted as the fuel tank readout came back _much_ higher than expected, with large amounts of specific additives he knew would benefit overworked mecha, medic frames and Incubators.

_Drift’s handiwork._

It was coming time to wake up properly but he still resisted, trying to postpone the inevitable.

One final surprise was the presence of a blanket wrapped around his frame, something Ratchet didn’t normally use when he had the opportunity to build a proper nest like this. The blanket smelled of newness and very faintly like his houseguests. They must have made sure he reached his nest and then tucked him in to make sure his fuel went to self-repair instead of producing excess heat to keep his frame warm. He ran a fold of it between his fingers, feeling the sturdy fabric slip easily through his hold and the corners of his mouthplates twitch.

_Silly, warmth-obsessed Ovaria._

With those thoughts to focus on, Ratchet reluctantly let his mind cross the boundary between half-recharge and full awareness.

Memory returned slowly, increasing in speed as the previous day’s events tumbled through his processor in an avalanche of horror. Once again the stench of charred organics, Cybertronian gore and red-hot metals filled his olfactory sensors, making his tanks churn.

A high-definition replay of the unnamed second victim going into critical spark failure and frying the organic paramedics in a plasmatic lightning storm sent Ratchet struggling up out of his nest, trying desperately to make it to the washracks. The blanket caught at him, tangling his limbs and slowing him down. He barely made it from the nest before he was on hands and knees, purging his tanks all over the floor. Thick, gunky half-processed energon splattered to the floor and Ratchet could hear himself clicking uncontrollably as he heaved.

Even though he knew it was an uncontrollable physical response to the force needed to empty his fuel tank of the gluggy stuff, Ratchet still found it absolutely humiliating to be on his hands and knees, clicking like a sparkling while he retched.

_I’m a fully-trained medic, for Primus’ sake! I shouldn’t be_ doing _this._

By the time his fuel tank was finally empty Ratchet knew this was going to be a very, very bad day.

He could feel the snarled lines of code alternately straining and pinching at his thought processes, slashing into him like strands of razor wire wrapped around his Spark. Somehow he’d have to deal with the malfunctioning code; sort himself out before the Ovaria returned. He needed to hide his fragile state from them. He knew they would be watching him; the condition he’d come home in would have triggered all their protective instincts.

If being cleaned and fed and tucked into his currently demolished nest like a sparkling wasn’t enough warning the blasted blanket was a dead giveaway.

_Slag. How long do I have?_

Ratchet slowly untangled himself from the blanket, checking his calendar and internal comms for any messages at the same time. There was a message from the clinic announcing that all first-responders from the previous day had the following week off, _no exceptions_ , and an update from the Autobot frigate containing the final Cybertronian death toll.

_Only one survivor._

Nobody had thought to tell Ratchet the final number of organic fatalities.

He wasn’t sure if he could handle the knowledge.

Moving in a daze he pushed himself up to his pedes, avoiding the vile mess on the floor and coasting on autopilot towards the washracks.

_Have to get clean. Can’t let them see._

With the door safely closed and locked behind him and an acidic solvent on as hot as he could stand Ratchet began methodically stripping his armour, baring his substructure and protoform to the spray.

The heat sank into him, easing physical aches which had been successfully distracting him from mental and emotional distress. He gritted his denta and picked up a stiff-bristled brush, thoroughly scrubbing traces of mud and the lifeblood of several species from the inside of each piece of armour while steam filled the room and the scent of the acidic cleanser inundated his chemoreceptors.

Every time his grip on his emotions threatened to slip, every time the knowledge that he’d failed rose to choke him Ratchet would cycle his vents and scrub harder, trying to remove the stains on his mind and Spark along with the stains on his plating.

Ratchet cleaned the insides of his armour and made it halfway through giving the outside of each piece a more thorough clean before he could no longer control the second-guessing and bitter guilt swamped him. His hands stilled on the section of armour he’s scrubbed right down to bare metal and his optics slid to the protoform of his thighs, his arms, his abdomen.

By now the pattering rain of solvent had sluiced him perfectly clean.

Every single defect in his silver-grey protoform was clearly visible.

One hand rose to trace a line of indents, fingers absently exploring the puckered outlines of old burn wounds.

_I need to pay for my mistakes; need to pay for everyone I’ve failed and everyone I’ve killed. I just need these thoughts to_ stop _._

The black tide rose within him and Ratchet succumbed.

 

## ~V~V~V~V~V~V~V~V~

 

The instant Drift’s boss discovered that he was boarding with the Cybertronian who’d helped pull so many organics from the tangled wreckage of the shuttles, the tiny organic had marched into the storeroom and without bothering to get up to Drift’s optic level had proceeded to shout at the speedster, _ordering_ Drift home with instructions to look after the medic.

It was exactly what he wanted to do. The Ovaria had found it extremely difficult to focus on the task at hand while his processor seemed bound and determined to think of nothing but the exhausted medic he’d last seen recharging peacefully, curled up in his nest under the blanket Drift had just bought, intending intended to use for himself and Wing.

So instead of protesting and staying for the rest of his shift a very amused and grateful Drift let himself hustled out early.

Ratchet certainly needed _someone_ looking out for him, that was sure.

When Drift reached the apartment he transformed out of his altmode on the street and approached the apartment on pede, letting himself in and locking the door behind him as quietly as possible. He wasn’t sure if Ratchet would be awake yet and didn’t want to be responsible for waking him if he was still recharging. Even without the shuttle crash the Incubator clearly needed all the recharge he could get.

Sneaking through the living area Drift felt his Spark clench as he remembered the state the medic had been in the previous night - absolutely exhausted, half-dead on his pedes and less than a shadow of his usual self. The Incubator worked himself past the point of collapse and then _had_ collapsed the moment he’d returned.

The sound of falling liquid and a faint trace of acidic cleanser in the air distracted Drift and he stopped in his tracks, cocking his helm to isolate the sounds.

_Someone’s in the washracks. Is Ratchet up?_

Not wanting to call out just in case it wasn’t the medic, Drift checked with Ianus. It wasn’t responding to the proximity of another Greatsword but the contrary thing wasn’t exactly reliable in that respect. His Bond with Wing hummed the way it did when the jet was concentrating and he wasn’t about to interrupt whatever Wing was doing just to find out if he was in the shower when he could easily find out just by looking.

Drift glided through the apartment on silent pedes, pausing in the hallway when the distinctive scent of purged energon struck his chemosensors. He frowned, optics sweeping his surroundings, searching for the source of the odour.

The door to Ratchet’s berthroom was open.

The odour of regurgitated fuel was coming from there.

_What the slag?_

For some unknown reason Drift sealed his vents and steeled himself before he peered around the doorframe. His vents popped open with a _whoosh_ of shock when he saw the mess inside.

_Primus below._

The inviting nest he and Wing had admired the night before was half destroyed, the blanket they’d spread over the Incubator abandoned in an untidy pile next to a slowly drying puddle of sick.

_What happened?!_

Drift pressed the back of his hand to his mouthplates, processor running through possible reasons for the scene in Ratchet’s berthroom. He knew there hadn’t been anything in the fuel to cause an adverse reaction, not even with any kind emergency rations the medic could possibly have consumed yesterday.

It had to be something else.

Determined to find out what it was, Drift turned and made a beeline for the sound of falling solvent.

Three steps from the washrack door Drift heard a strange choked noise from inside.

Two steps away he felt the EM Field.

It was like slamming into a blast wave at top speed.

Bitter guilt and self-hatred burned at Drift, completely uncontrolled with an inward-turned focus that hadn’t picked up on his presence yet.

There was no mistaking the source of the Field. Not with the Incubator’s empty nest and Wing’s presence calm and steady in his Spark, completely unlike the vile morass of emotions emanating from the being within the washracks.

_Oh, no. _Ratchet.__

Drift recognised the flavour of condemnation the medic’s unrestrained EM Field far too well. While he stood frozen in place, trying to comprehend how _Ratchet_ of all mechanisms could feel like this a bright flash of physical pain lanced past the murky emotions, followed immediately by a rush of sickening relief that assaulted him through the dark EMF.

An audible hiss carrying over the splash of solvent sent Drift into action. Pushing himself, the Ovaria inched forward through the suffering carried on that Spark-breakingly familiar Field.

_No, you can’t do this._ Please _don’t leave!_

Mentally cursing his inability to mute his extra EM sensors Drift forced himself onwards, making it to the washracks door before discovering that it was locked.

In the fastest transformation of his life he slid into his Syngnathi form and used one hooked claw to forcibly remove the flimsy locking mechanism and fling it aside before shoving the door open.

Steam flooded out into the hall, momentarily blinding Drift. He felt the ripple of fear and shock from Ratchet’s EM Field less than a second before the Incubator’s voice emerged from the mist in a guttural growl.

“Frag off! That was locked for a _reason!_ ”

Autonomic systems adjusted the temperature of Drift’s optic lenses and the steam clouding them evaporated, allowing him a clear view of the washracks. Ratchet’s freshly cleaned armour was arranged in a neat half-circle on the tiled floor, the Ovaria absently making a mental note of damage from the day before that would need a nanite filler. The piece closest to Ratchet showed a large patch scrubbed entirely free of protective enamel, the metal bared and gleaming dully under a layer of condensation.

“Are your audials malfunctioning?! I said _frag off!_ ” Ratchet snarled again, aggression filling his Field where it pushed at Drift as if trying to bodily shove him from the room.

The undercurrent of pure fear beneath the anger kept Drift rooted to the spot despite the building threat of violence emanating from the medic. His optics seemed to have a mind of their own; despite not wanting to look directly at Ratchet for fear of what he might see; Drift just couldn’t help the way his gaze slowly tracked over the semicircle of red and white armour plates towards the mech at the centre.

As he expected, the only armour still attached to Ratchet’s frame was his helm and the small plates protecting his hands and pedes. The medic was trying to bristle belligerently; it was obvious in his posture and the way his biolights pulsed. Drift saw armour attachments and neural connection points flexing as his optics trailed over exposed protoform, Spark sinking as he saw how many scars covered the Incubator’s form.

_No, he shouldn’t look like this. He should’ve been protected, dammit!_

Accidents with patients and the marks of war left ragged trails of different hues across the grey protoform backdrop. The sheer number made every recently-awakened instinct in Drift’s frame clamour with outrage. If he _ever_ found the incompetent who had failed to protect Ratchet, Drift knew he would tear the mech apart without a second thought.

“Get. Out.” Ratchet enunciated the words clearly and coldly, icy rage and rejection hammering at Drift. “ _Now_.”

Then he saw it.

Other marks, too neat and regular to be battle damage.

Far, _far_ too many of them.

Drift was half-aware of making a noise deep in his vocaliser as he stepped forward into the washracks, some embarrassing pained chirrup that turned into a whispering whine when Ratchet screamed at him, desperation threading through the anger in his Field and those legendary hands frantically trying to hide a row of fresh circular burns that was simply too large for him to cover effectively.

**_“GET OUT!”_ **

The medic was shaking, obviously on the verge of some kind of break. For the first time in his life Drift found himself able to hear those authoritative harmonics from an Incubator and not automatically comply with the order. He shook his helm, wordlessly refusing to obey.

Panic built in Ratchet’s Field, accompanied by an all-consuming terror that increased as Drift took another step forward and knelt to bring his helm down to the same level as the older mech. He let his Field flow out, surrounding the jagged edges of Ratchet’s rapidly retreating electromagnetic presence with _determination/care/ respect_.

A soft rumble started in Drift’s vocaliser that was completely unlike any other sound he’d produced before. He saw Ratchet sag a little then catch himself, red-plated hands pressing harder over the fresh burns.

“Please… Just _leave_.” Ratchet’s voice was barely audible above the splash of falling solvent, openly pleading.

The Incubator’s gaze was fixed on a point off to Drift’s side, unwilling or unable to actually look at the younger mech. The amount of shame he was projecting increased sharply and Drift responded by increasing the depth and volume of his crooning, wrapping the medic in every ounce of respect and safety he could muster. He stayed completely still, quietly terrified of accidentally pushing Ratchet too far.

The shower ran out of solvent and slowed to a trickle before shutting itself off. When the splattering died away Drift’s crooning filled the room with throbbing sound and Ratchet shuddered, scattering little droplets of solvent from his protoform.

Paying such close attention to the Incubator’s Field as he was, Drift felt the precise the moment when Ratchet came to the end of his tether. Nothing could have prepared him for the sight of Ratchet burying his face in his hands and beginning to shake.

The clicking sobs that followed nearly ripped his Spark in two.


	11. Fallout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ratchet falls apart.  
> Drift struggles with the pieces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs for this chapter: Hurt (Johnny Cash cover), Epilogue [Relief] (Apocalyptica)
> 
> Relevant headcanons:  
> ~The Cybertronian language is extremely complex and specific, with a massive vcabulary.  
> ~Before and after Empurata, Shockwave went by two different Cybertronian designations that translate to the same English word.  
> Before Empurata:  
> A solar coronal **Shockwave** ([Moreton Wave](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Moreton_wave))  
>  After Empurata: The point of a **shockwave** caused by an air burst (specifically a nuclear detonation) where the most physical damage is caused at ground level. ([Mach Stem](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Air_burst#Nuclear_weapons))  
>  I have kept this headcanon consistent for Incubator!Shockwave in all Syngnath AUs

Drift reacted to the sparkbroken clicks pouring from the shuddering medic before he could stop to think, pulling his thermal wrap from subspace and moving forward to wrap it around the sobbing mech.  He was pulling Ratchet into an embrace when his processor finally caught up with his frame.

He fought the urge to crush the mech to him, forcing his coding into a mental corner and telling it to stay put. Drift wanted to shelter and protect Ratchet, not make him feel trapped. Even this might be going too far but he _couldn’t_ let the desolation in Ratchet’s Field go unanswered. The strange humming he couldn’t stop only got stronger as he felt the smaller Cybertronian-camouflaged form of the Incubator go tense in his arms. Drift pushed as much acceptance and reassurance into his Field as he could, receiving a touch of disbelief in response before Ratchet pulled into himself and withdrew from active EMF contact.

Solvent from their frames soaked into the wrap as Drift tried to figure out what to do. He and Wing had _known_ something was wrong. Primus, it was as obvious as gravity that Ratchet wasn’t happy but Drift would never, ever have suspected anything like this. It absolutely beggared belief that an Incubator and someone as important to Autobot culture as _CMO Ratchet_ would go unaided.

_How long have you been alone, Ratch?_

He could feel Wing’s worried presence hovering in their bond. The jet was aware of a crisis and palpably desperate for answers but resolutely following protocol and waiting for Drift to secure his surroundings and contact him first. No matter how much Ratchet might hate him for bringing yet another person in on this he couldn’t leave Wing without an explanation for the emotional storm he had no doubt been subjected to.

Cycling his vents to steady himself, Drift pinged his mate.

Wing opened the commlink with a quick spurt of worried glyphs before getting himself under control.

[We have a situation.] Drift added warning glyphs before he databurst Wing precisely what had happened. [I need you here. I can’t handle him on my own if he really starts to panic.]

He knew the instant Wing opened the databurst file. Horror flooded down the Bond. Horror and denial and an incredulity that made Drift want to punch his mate.

[I swear to Primus Wing, if you freak out all over him I will _nail your wings to the wall_.] Drift growled down the commlink, absolutely without mercy. [What Ratchet needs from us right now right now is _support_. That’s far more important than how we _want_ to react.] He relented just enough to let Wing feel some of his own soul-sickness and got a glimmer of understanding in response. [We can sort ourselves out later, ok? Right now we need to focus on him.]

[I will be there as soon as I can.] Wing sent, his terse message modified by subglyphs of love, encouragement and grim determination.

The jet cut the call abruptly, withdrawing from the Bond to let Drift concentrate on Ratchet without the distraction of his mate’s emotions. Despite the deliberate muting of their Bond Drift could still feel the older knight fighting to get himself under control. He sent Wing a pulse of love and gratitude before turning his full attention back to Ratchet.

His conversation had only taken a bare few seconds. Ratchet was still clicking but obviously fighting desperately to get himself under control. He was shaking so hard Drift had to settle himself cross-legged on the floor for balance, carefully adjusting Ratchet so the fresh burns weren’t pressing on anything. In a burst of recklessness Drift tucked the Incubator’s head beneath his chin, positioning it so Ratchet’s audial receptor was pressed to the armour over Drift’s vocaliser. 

“’M not gonna ask you _why_ , Ratch.” Drift said, speaking just loud enough to be heard over quieting sobs and the whine of fans cooling stressed systems. “’Cause I _felt_ that. And whatever made you hurt bad enough to need that, well, I know you must have had a damn good reason.”

There was no response, but Drift kept talking. It was slow going, searching for a good way to phrase what he was trying to display with his EMF to someone who was completely ignoring his attempts at EM interaction. Hopefully the weird change to his voice would at least get Ratchet to listen.

“Just, if there’s anything I can do to help, all you need to do is ask and I’ll do it; anything _except_ leave you alone to keep feeling this bad.”

It was incredibly frustrating, groping for words with Ratchet deliberately refusing to make EMF contact so he could fully communicate what he meant with them. Drift ploughed onwards despite the difficulty, desperate to reach the mech he could feel rapidly withdrawing despite the lack of tangible EMF contact. The Ovaria still wasn’t used to turning to Ianus for support but the Greatsword’s steady presence at his back was more comforting than he thought it would be as he struggled to find the right words to reach the suffering mech.

“I mean that, you know. _Anything_. You should _never_ have to feel this bad. You’re special; you should _never_ have learned what it’s like to need something like this to cope.”

Drift felt like he was talking into a wind tunnel and nothing was reaching Ratchet, but now that he’d mastered his sobs the Incubator’s shaking was subsiding as well as he got his frame back under conscious control. There was still a chance that he might be listening so Drift kept speaking, trying desperately not to start crying as well. Ratchet must have noticed the way Drift’s ventilations were becoming uneven because the medic shifted slightly to unblock a vent he’d been lying against.

“’Cause that’s what it is; a way to cope when nothing else works.” Drift’s vents were definitely hitching now as memories of his past came rushing up, threatening to overpower him. “And… whatever made you need to do it just know that I’ll _never_ judge you.” Drift snorted humourlessly, a habit he’d picked up from the mech in his arms.

“Primus below, Ratchet; I’m the _last_ mech with any right to judge you. You didn’t look down on me or treat me any different to everyone else even when I was just some Dead End scum that washed up on your circuit slab. You treated me just like any other mech. Do you have any idea how remarkable that is? There is no way I'd do anything less to you.” Drift’s voice broke and he had to reset his vocaliser.

It was getting harder to force the words out around the urge to start bawling but he pushed it down. Now was NOT the time.

_I can cry later, now I have to be strong. For Ratchet._

“I couldn’t do any less for you, Ratchet.” He was nearly out of words. “It looks like you’ve been living with too much pain for too long. I think that you are incredibly strong and very, _very_ brave for enduring it and continuing to survive.”

Ratchet made a choking sound that could have been a bitter laugh.

“I don’t feel like it.” He croaked words that were almost entirely static.

“You were listening?” Drift was completely dumbfounded. One had moved without permission to rub the Incubator’s upper arm through the soft fabric covering his bare protoform. Without the shower on it was becoming distinctly cool in the washrack,

“I was.” Ratchet admitted, voice becoming clearer although his words were still heavily corrupted by static. “I don’t _feel_ strong, and I certainly don’t feel _brave_.” He spat the last word like a curse, EM Field returning to brush warily against Drift.

The sheer misery in that tiny wisp of Field contact came damn close to completely destroying Drift. He reacted without thinking, holding Ratchet closer, folding himself around the Incubator like a living shield and pressing his cheek against the top of Ratchet’s helm.

This was _Ratchet_. The first mech besides Gasket who hadn’t flinched from touching him, the only being to ever call him special within moments of meeting him. At that moment Drift vowed to himself that if he _ever_ found out who was responsible for allowing Ratchet to feel this bad he would end them so thoroughly not even the DJD would dare to touch him afterwards.

Keeping that to himself the Ovaria enfolded that tiny thread of Ratchet’s EMF as thoroughly as he could, wrapping around the uneven surfaces and projecting _admiration/respect/Kin_ as strongly as he could. He could feel Ratchet try to deny the emotions he in his Field even as he instinctively responded to the Syngnathi resonance carrying them. The strange crooning sound coming from Drift’s vocaliser shifted in tone and Ratchet’s frame and Field relaxed slightly in response, cautiously allowing the outer layers of their Fields to engage.

Ratchet hadn’t pushed him away. He was  _listening_.

Triumph surged in Drift's Spark and he felt like he’d just won the war, despite knowing damn well that this was just the opening skirmish. Getting this far was still more than Drift had dared to hope for when he first hit the Incubator’s toxic EMF. 

“It’s funny; you’re actually at your bravest when you don’t feel like you’re being brave at all.” Drift said, feeling the thermal wrap puff out as Ratchet snorted through his vents. “And you look brave as Pit from where I am.”

Before the Incubator could find the words to contradict him again Drift plunged onwards.

“When **Shockwave** ,” He used the mech’s old designation -the version the Senator had gone by- and felt the jolt it sent through Ratchet’s frame. “When **Shockwave** was taken you could have run. Actually you _should_ have, but you _didn’t_. You risked everything to stay right where you were, so you could help others. If that isn’t brave then I don’t know what is.”

Ratchet’s EMF flushed with a little pleasure at the praise, but that promising little hint was almost completely drowned by a surge of denial. He muttered something about stupidity and stubbornness that Drift deliberately ignored, gently pulling Ratchet closer and deepening their Field contact. Taking his courage in both hands, the Ovaria filled his Field with all the respect, admiration and affection he felt for the mech in his arms.

“You _are_ strong. And brave. You’re one of the most amazing beings I’ve _ever_ had the privilege of meeting. You don’t deserve to live with this kind of pain, Ratchet. Will you let us help you? Please?” Drift openly pleaded with Field and voice, not caring about his own pride.

He _knew_ what was at stake, far better than the Incubator or Wing did. He would sacrifice a lot more than his pride if it meant Ratchet would one day be able to leave this living hell behind him.

“Us?” Ratchet’s Field pulsed with resignation and dread.

“Wing knows. He’s on his way home. I’ve told him I’ll stick him to the wall if he freaks out all over you.” Drift admitted reluctantly, unsure of how Ratchet would respond.

It only took Ratchet a few seconds to process the information but it felt like an eternity to Drift, fighting to keep the worried cringing of his Spark from contaminating his EMF.

“Figured, you two being Spark-bonded and all.” Ratchet seemed to accept the information far more easily than Drift would have done if their places were reversed.

_Is this pragmatism from his medic coding or is he bottling everything up again?_

Suddenly the Incubator started squirming, trying to push himself out of Drift’s arms.

“Help me get my armour back on. The less Wing has to see of this the less likely he is to go off half-cocked.” Ratchet’s voice was a shadow of its usual gruffness.

It was an extremely sensible suggestion. Of the three of them, Wing was definitely the most naive when it came to unhealthy ways to cope, and having his armour on would make Ratchet feel less vulnerable, too. Mulling this over, Drift loosened his hold and unobtrusively helped Ratchet to his pedes. Apparently the Incubator no longer cared how much Drift saw of his scarred protoform as Ratchet let the thermal wrap slide from his shoulders and stomped over to his armour without a care for how he looked or even the cool, clammy air of the washracks on his bare protoform.

Drift focused very hard on folding up his blanket and shoving it back in subspace in order to keep his optics off the Incubator’s armour-less frame. Even covered in traceries of old scars and with signs of fresh damage marring Ratchet’s silvery protoform Drift still found him dangerously attractive. There was just _something_ about the clean, strong lines of his frame and the obvious physical strength his armour usually concealed that made Drift long for something he didn’t have words for.

_Now is_ so _not the time._

By the time Drift rose to join him Ratchet already had his leg armour attached and was working on his arms. The strange re-armouring order puzzled the speedster for a moment. Normally mecha would cover their Spark first, _especially_ Incubators who had their gestation/maturation chambers concealed in their chest cavities. Not even Shockwave had been an exception to that rule.

Old, old memories from Rodion surfaced, explaining the peculiarity.

_Arms and legs are easiest to reach; easiest to cover and hide in a hurry. Ratch'…_

Drift picked up a large back panel, the one with a shiny worn patch from too much scrubbing, settling it gently into place on the medic’s frame and waiting for sound of locks clicking and the tiny change in surface current which told him Ratchet’s neural relays had connected properly before kneeling down and reaching for the next section. They worked in silence, moving as smoothly as if they’d done this a thousand times.

When Ratchet was fully armoured again Drift stayed where he was, kneeling on the washrack floor looking up at the medic. Ratchet’s expression was completely unreadable, his Field just barely allowing contact. They both heard the front door slamming open and closing again with a bang, Wing’s pedesteps going from an all-out run to a dead stop somewhere the middle of the living area.

Anxiety surged from the Incubator and Drift responded with solidity and support before he could think, momentarily wrapping the Incubator in his Field like it was a second layer of armour. Ratchet cycled his optics several times, and then sighed.

“Let’s get this over with.” He said wearily, holding out a hand to Drift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer-thingie:  
> I have never personally been caught in the act of harming myself. I am basing Ratchet's reactions on a combination of how I interpret his character and how I think I would react if someone had caught me.  
> Drift's actions and words are again based on a combination of my interpretation of his character and things I have said to friends (and what friends have said to me) in the aftermath of similar situations.  
> There is a sort of weird kinship between brainglitch buddies. You've both been to a particular part of hell that is hard for someone who hasn't been there (Like Ovaria!Wing) to really understand.


	12. Breathe Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The universe conspires against Ratchet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is for my internet friends who helped me survive some of the worst parts of my life. Even though they'll probably never read this, their words have provided a lot of the framework for how this chapter plays out.
> 
> Ratchet is still in a very dark headspace. Specific warnings for suicidal thoughts and a brief mention of throwing up.

# Twelve

Ratchet pulled Drift to his pedes, surprised by the extra mass he had to help lift and only then realising that the Ovaria had assumed his Syngnathi form. When he realised what he was seeing Ratchet’s processor came very close to stalling.

_Oh Primus, he’s_ stunning _._

He’d always harboured a suspicion that the exceptionally attractive Cybertronian disguises of the two Ovaria would translate into Syngnathi forms that were just as good-looking. It turned out that at least in Drift’s case, Ratchet had _seriously_ underestimated just how gorgeous they’d be.

It was just another punch to the Spark.

As long as Drift and Wing _hadn’t known_ that he was broken then Ratchet could still dream, could entertain the wild notion that he might be welcome to travel with them if Command had to extend this medical leave. Knowing that he didn’t even have the luxury of daydreams anymore filled him with bitter regret. Ratchet was forced to accept reality, acknowledging that his idle fantasies of seeing Crystal City with the Ovaria were just that – fantasies and ultimately nothing more than a waste of time.

It would never happen.

They would stick around and help just long enough to satisfy their sense of obligation then be on their merry way, congratulating themselves and feeling self-righteous while Ratchet went back to the war and what it was doing to him.

_I don’t think I can take that fragging war much longer._

Standing immobile, Ratchet watched Drift stoop to keep his from scraping the ceiling; finials that Ratchet realised with a shock were his _horns_ , horns that had been in full view this whole time. That little shock goaded the Incubator into motion again. It was just too much; he couldn’t endure being confronted with everything he could never have for a single moment longer. Stiffly he dropped Drift’s hand, turned on his heel and marched out of the washracks like a mech going to his execution, his words to the Ovaria echoing through his processor.

_Let’s get this over with._

A carefully hunched Drift followed him obediently as Ratchet trudged down the short hallway, moving slowly and wishing it was a thousand times longer so he could postpone the confrontation with Wing for as long as possible.

Despite his slow pace the hallway was just as short as ever and Ratchet found Wing standing in the living room, optics wide and bright and his armour twitching anxiously. The jet looked… different. He took up more room usual and there was something about the fingers and audial flares that made Ratchet cycle his optics and look at him properly.

Then it hit him.

Wing was in his true form.

_Just like Drift_.

He was absolutely stunning, breathtakingly beautiful in a way that stopped Ratchet’s vents and woke parts of his coding that had had been twitching restlessly in the depths of his processor for longer than he cared to think about. While Drift obviously still had some growing to do, there was no denying that Wing was an adult. All the way from the tops of his slender, tapering sensory horns to the soles of his pedes there was no doubt whatsoever that Wing was a mature Ovaria. It was as obvious to Ratchet as the sun in the sky or the ground under his pedes. Every inch of the jet’s frame practically _screamed_ it. Combined with his other attributes, Wing could have his pick of Incubators no matter where he went.

Faced with this, Ratchet felt what was left of his metaphorical Spark wither and die in his chest. It was too much. Seeing Wing and Drift in their Syngnathi forms and knowing for _damn_ sure he’d never have a chance, not just with them but with _any_ Ovaria who ever saw his protoform, was too much. It was too cruel.

Suddenly the thought of ‘accidentally’ catching a stray missile wasn’t unpleasant at all.

He could feel himself crumbling; feel his control over his EMF slipping as reality sank in. Ratchet fought desperately to maintain his composure, to reign in his runaway emotions before he broke and made the situation any more uncomfortable. Drift must have sensed something in his EMF, or else he was getting a crick in his backstruts from standing hunched over in the hallway while Wing and Ratchet stared at each other because the speedster made a questioning little chirping sound.

It broke the impasse when neither of the other Syngnathi seemed willing or able to do so.

Ratchet knew there was no way he could have done it.

Wing took a step forward, a troubled expression on his faceplates whereas his EMF held nothing but concern where it brushed the very outer edge of Ratchet’s Field. From that brief touch Ratchet could tell that Wing was reacting the way any Ovaria would to an Incubator in distress. Drift stayed where he was and Ratchet wasn’t sure if the speedster was supporting him or cutting off an escape route if he tried to flee. They certainly had him thoroughly boxed in; going forwards would take him straight to Wing and the only way he could avoid doing that would be to walk backwards into Drift.

He didn’t want to do either.

Irrational as it was, all Ratchet wanted to do was hide with his shame until the Ovaria forgot all about this.

_Not fragging likely._

“Ratchet?” Wing’s voice was soft, the full range of Syngnathi harmonics catching Ratchet’s attention and holding it fast. “Drift commed me. Is there anything I can do to help you?”

The raw uncertainty in the normally confident Knight’s voice sent a fresh surge of guilt through Ratchet. If he’d just been paying attention, if he’d heard Drift coming home this _never_ would have happened. He could have prevented it, kept from harming them with his damage, been able to preserve the illusion that everything was fine. Something of his turmoil must have made it to his Field because Drift made a soothing noise, pressing _care/protection_ against the frazzled edges of his EMF.

_I’m not going to lie to them. They deserve better than that._

“I... honestly don’t know.” His voice still sounded awful and he saw how Wing flinched at the harsh croak but Ratchet forced himself to continue speaking. “It’s… The war has damaged my coding. I’ve, I have…” Ratchet felt himself starting to shake again, tried and failed to control it. “I had to kill, many times. Tricked my coding into thinking it was in defence of Nest and Kin so I could.” He could hear his armour rattling as the shaking intensified. “It didn’t work for long. Doing _that_ … it was the only way I could find to live with the consequences.” One long, shuddering invent and Ratchet forced the final admission out through a glitching vocaliser. “Command found out about what I was doing and sent me out here to… to sort myself out”

Wing made a pained sound low in his vocaliser, his Field gently stroking Ratchet’s with sorrow and a level of empathy he hadn’t realised that Ovaria would be able to feel for his situation, given how much easier it was for them to end lives. Not that’d he’d actually _met_ any Ovaria since the war started to be able to ask them. He felt the urge to keen rising from his Spark and ruthlessly stomped it back down.

“Will you let us help however we can, anyway? Even if you don’t know?” The jet asked quietly, “You don’t have to do this alone, Ratchet.”

_But when you go I’ll be alone again._

He could feel it coming, that strange numb pressure building inside his chest until it was all he could do to control the detonation. Ratchet’s vents hitched and the plates of his armour rattled embarrassingly loudly against each other as uncontrollable tremors shook his entire frame.

Both Ovaria rushed to catch Ratchet as he fell to his knees; his legs simply refused to hold him up any longer. The pitiful sound that tore itself from his vocaliser against his will was muted by Wing’s neck cables as the Knights surrounded him in a fortress of sleek white armour, their EM Fields forming a cocoon of safety like nothing he’d ever felt before. It was overwhelming and completely beyond his ability to understand why they’d do this for him. Even after the way the pair cared for him the previous night it was difficult for Ratchet to believe that this kindness was truly meant for him.

They held him as he shook, ruthlessly sacrificing voluntary control of several systems in order to keep his vocaliser silent while optical lubricants streamed down his face. Neither Ovaria commented on the tears, enfolding him in Fields filled with comfort and an emotion that felt dangerously like love. Eventually something reached Ratchet’s audials, filtering past the whine of his straining systems and the uneven hiccupping of his vents, drifting slowly into his awareness until Ratchet recognised it for what it was.

_Singing. They’re_ singing _._

Drift and Wing were crooning low in their vocalisers; a wordless little melody that wrapped itself around Ratchet’s Spark and eased some of the hurt and loneliness he’d been living with for so long he’d forgotten what it was like to be without it.

Embarrassingly, it just made him cry harder.

He wasn’t sure whose Field gently countered the humiliation he felt and replaced it with acceptance but it was definitely Drift who spoke next to his audial, dropping out of the song just long enough to communicate with words. There were more layers to his spoken voice than Ratchet could remember there being. He wasn’t sure if something had changed or he simply hadn’t been paying attention before.

“It’s ok. Get it out now or it’ll just fester. You’re safe, we’ve got you.”

Wing nodded agreement, cheekpieces brushing against the Incubator’s helm.

Drift picked up the song again and for a long moment Ratchet stayed as still as his traitorous frame would allow, staring blankly over Wing’s shoulder at half-spread flightpanels mantling protectively over the three of them. Then he bowed his helm in defeat, resting his chevron against Wing’s shoulder and let himself cry.

_It’s not like I’ve got any dignity left at this point, anyway._

The Ovaria continued to shelter Ratchet with their frames, supporting him as he broke down. Their vocalisers wandered through odd little melodies he half-knew and others he didn’t. After what felt like hours his optical lubricant reservoirs simply ran dry, despite the fact that he was _still_ sobbing static into Wing’s shoulder.  The shaking of his frame had made his knees start aching long before he reached that point but he just couldn’t bring himself to care.

A low fuel warning popped up on Ratchet’s HUD that he simply didn’t have the energy to acknowledge and dismiss. Even moving was too much effort.

The low fuel warning pinged more insistently but he ignored it in favour of staying where he was. He wondered if it was selfish to not want this to end, to freeze this moment in time where he was warm and cared about and simply not deal with the consequences and the discussion he knew was coming.

Pressed between their frames as he was, Ratchet could tell that the Ovaria were talking through their bond. The little flexions of their armour in response to the silent conversation were hard to miss. There were little ripples in their EM Fields that he picked up easily even though their singing never faltered.

_Trying to figure out what to do with me, I bet._

Whatever they were saying, the Ovaria’s silent talk seemed to come to an end and Wing cycled his vents in a sigh.

“We’re going to move now, ok?” Drift said quietly next to Ratchet’s audial, using plurals that indicated three people. “This floor isn’t good for anyone’s knees.”

Ratchet nodded dully against Wing’s neck, allowing them to pull him upright without protest. When they stood Ratchet discovered that he was clumsy and stumbling with fatigue, his legs gone numb from kneeling too long. It made him feel older and even more useless, the two graceful young Ovaria rising smoothly to their pedes despite the added burden of his disobedient frame. They had to stoop to avoid scraping their sensor horns on the ceiling, moving to each side of him and carefully wrapping an arm apiece around his waist before steering him down the hallway.

Towards their berthroom.

_What are they doing?_

The urge to struggle and challenge their decision vanished almost as quickly as it appeared. Ratchet simply _did not care_ anymore. The worst thing that could possibly happen to him had just occurred; nothing else was worth worrying about.

He was just too tired to care.

Tired of hurting, tired of fighting, tired of being alone.

Tired of his coding screaming at him about things he couldn’t change.

Ratchet allowed his optics to slip offline and stared at the flashing fuel warning on his HUD, letting the Ovaria do what they wanted. He followed their quiet instructions to the letter, stepping high and turning when asked, moving as directed to lie back on something squashy. Two pairs of hands tucked a thick, soft blanket around him in an echo of the previous night.

_So in the morning I can wreck_ their _nest and puke everywhere in here? Wonderful._

When he was arranges and covered to their satisfaction the Ovaria carefully settled into the nest on either side of him, pressing against the malleable pile of blankets and cushions and forcing it to conform to their current needs. Ratchet wanted to protest this unnecessary consideration but the small flickers of stress in Wing’s EMF kept him silent. The jet had been around Cybertronians and Drift for so long that he was probably unaware that his control wasn’t as fine-tuned as it should have been, and Ratchets coding and natural consideration wanted to keep from upsetting the flightframe Ovaria any further. Both Ovaria were still humming low in their vocalisers, keeping up a constant backdrop of noise that spoke of safety and Kin and the kind of closeness that couldn’t be found anywhere else. It brought back dim memories of curling up with his siblings between his creator’s frames and listening to them sing as well as more recent –but still old- ones of the one and only clutch Ratchet had been able to have before passing himself off as Forged and moving to Cybertron. Despite himself he relaxed, ventilations slowing and his Field reaching out.

On either side of him the shifting and nest modification stopped, gentle hands coming to rest on the blanket over his upper arms and Ratchet twitched, feeling his Spark lurch at the contact.

“Is this ok?” Wing asked quietly.

_What?… oh, he must mean touching my arm._

Nervous tension and uncertainty tinged both Ovaria’s Fields; growing stronger the longer Ratchet took to respond. Eventually he found the energy to nod. Then his fuel and coolant tanks made embarrassing noises, additional warnings springing up beside the first low fuel notification on his HUD.

_Oh shut up._

There was a way to turn them off but he couldn’t remember it.

“I know where they are.” Wing murmured out of nowhere, obviously finishing a Sparkbond conversation out loud for Ratchet’s benefit. “I’ll be right back.”

The jet pressed his other hand to Ratchet’s upper arm as well, stroking the plating gently with his thumb before he left the nest and his Field moved out of range. He was back before Ratchet could get the energy to online his optics, curling up in the same spot he’d vacated. Something rustled and the scent of something tasty hit Ratchet’s chemoreceptors. It still wasn’t enough to get him to move. Not that he really could, tucked in tightly with Drift’s warm frame boxing him in on one side and Wing hemming him in on the other.

“These are concentrated ration solids that Drift experimented with.” Wing explained and Ratchet felt the distinctive texture of gelled Energon against his lipplates. Drift’s engine rumbled, his Field flickering briefly and smoothing out again just as quickly. “They contain most additives we need and taste a lot better than you’d expect them to.”

As much as he didn’t want to be had-fed like a sparkling Ratchet really didn’t have a choice. His frame reacted on autopilot, opening his mouth and allowing Wing to insert the small chunk of fuel. The shattered remains of his pride rebelled at being fuelled like an invalid but his traitorous coding wouldn’t listen. It was primed for obsedience by a gestation/maturation chamber that had been achingly hollow for more millennia than he wanted to count. There was no way to reason with it, no way for him to tell it that what it wanted was impossible so he could do nothing but comply and obediently let Wing fuel him one gel at a time.

He wanted to feel connected again, to feel like he was needed for more than his skill at surgery. The pain of knowing it would never happen was something Ratchet didn’t want to focus on right now so he deliberately kept his thought processes as empty as possible. So long as his didn’t have to online his optics he could maintain the illusion that this was completely casual, or some pleasant dream cooked up by a combination of his broody coding and the presence of the two good-looking Ovaria in his apartment. Allowing Wing to hand-feed him also soothed the undercurrent of stress and helplessness in the jet’s field, which in turn further pacified Ratchet’s own coding. Wing was hopelessly out of his depth and obviously no longer used to the level of EMF control required around his own kind, having been living exclusively around full Cybertronians for millions of years. He was leaking reactions Ratchet shouldn’t have been able to pick up.

Mercifully, both Ovaria seemed to be completely indifferent to the more intimate implications of the situation, acting as casually as if this was exactly the same as sitting in the living room, having their evening fuel debating something silly.

_Except it's mid-afternoon, I’m in their nest and they just found out just how completely slagged I am._

“Why are you doing this?” Ratchet rasped when the last of the gels had made its way down his intake.

“Because helping another is the highest calling one can aspire to.” Wing answered as the Ovaria carefully arranged themselves on either side of Ratchet, carefully keeping a hand each on his upper arms.

Nostalgia tinged the Fields of both Ovaria at Wing’s words, flowing through the shield of comfort and safety they continued to hold around Ratchet. The answer was both comforting and a little disappointing but it was one the Incubator could accept. It was exactly the kind of righteous nonsense he’d expect either of them –but Wing especially- to come out with, considering the quasi-spiritual nature of the Knight code they lived by.

It confirmed exactly what he suspected; they would stick around until their consciences were satisfied then be off to gallivant about the universe again while he went back to war.

_I wish… I wish they were helping because they_ cared _about me, not because they wanted to feel virtuous._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been someones trophy charitable work. It's a rather dehumanising experience.
> 
> This fic is going to be moving to fortnightly updates. I seriously underestimated how tough it would be to crawl into all these headspaces and not get sucked back into relapse myself when I got to this part of the plot.


	13. Here For You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wing has two important conversations.  
> Ratchet is cuddled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _::Bond talk::_  
>  [Commspeak]
> 
> Relevant songs:  
> Safe from harm (Massive Attack), Sentinel Prime (Steve Jablonsky), I'm not dead (P!nk), Breathe Me (Sia), BTSK (MS MR)

##  **Thirteen**

Drift couldn’t believe it.

Ratchet was here. He was _in their nest_.

If the circumstances that had brought them here hadn’t been so fragging awful he’d be convinced it was a dream.

But it wasn’t.

The Incubator really _was_ in their nest, lying between Wing and himself with his EMF ragged and exhausted and so full of pain that it couldn’t be anything _but_ real. Never in all those millions of years on the opposite side of the battle lines had Drift wished _anything_ but good to come to this mech, this saviour he’d gone on to disappoint. In fact, if he’d had any inkling of what the war had been doing to Ratchet, Drift had a sneaking suspicion he would have done something drastic to keep him from coming to any further harm.

_If I’d known…_

He couldn’t do anything about it now. All he could do now was keep up the quiet singing that seemed to be helping Ratchet and shelter him as best he could with his EM Field, letting the Incubator rest while Drift tried to take what he knew and apply it to the situation he found himself facing.

It felt like an impossible task.

Wondering what the frag they were going to do, Drift brought his optics online and gazed across Ratchet’s broad, blanket-covered chest to where Wing was lying in a mirror of his own pose; curled on his side with a hand resting on Ratchet’s upper arm. In their true forms they were so much larger than Ratchet, although Drift knew that the Incubator would be bigger than either of them if he were to drop his disguise. Wing’s optics were offline and his expression was peaceful. If it wasn’t for the crooning coming from his vocaliser and the responsiveness of his Field it would have been easy to think the jet was deep in recharge.

Drift admired the curve of his mate’s slim, elegant sensor horns and tried to analyse his earlier reaction to the sight of Wing hand-feeding Ratchet some of their emergency rations. It had been completely out of place and bothered him for reasons he couldn’t explain. He replayed his memories, examining his reactions carefully.

The instant Wing pressed the first piece to Ratchet’s lipplates Drift had felt a strange desire to challenge his mate for the package of gels, accompanied by a surge of some nameless emotion and the feeling of something shifting within his coding. The only thing that had really kept him from doing more than rev his engine possessively was the fact that the person he wanted to clash with was _Wing_ , his Spark-bonded mate. That conflict between _challenge_ and _mate_ had helped him push the odd desire aside; chalking it up to a combination of the fuel jealousy left over from his days in the Dead End and his feelings for both mecha, torn between wanting to be the one to pamper Ratchet and simultaneously wanting to receive the same treatment from Wing.

While all these factors certainly played a part in his reaction, for reasons he couldn’t explain Drift felt sure that there was _something else_ going on as well.

He couldn’t ignore it. He had to be certain of himself and his reactions if he wanted to be able to help Ratchet.

Now that he was paying attention, Drift realised that things were _still_ shifting around in his coding. He could feel the changes going on busily in the back of his processor, priorities rerouting and new systems opening up to integrate smoothly with existing code structures. It felt weird but it _had_ happened a few times before, whenever a much-delayed growth spurt kicked in and his frame and code worked to implement the necessary changes. Idly he checked the timestamp on the first of the current round of alterations and twitched with surprise when he found that it corresponded with identifying Ratchet’s Field as that of an Incubator in deep distress.

_Which means that I didn’t want to challenge Wing for the_ fuel, _so much as… oh._

Carefully, he reached towards Wing through their Bond. It took a supreme act of will to keep his EMF clear of the turmoil he felt but somehow he managed it.

_::Wing?::_

_::Yes, Drift?::_

Wing’s response was immediate and warm, filled with all the affection he still couldn’t believe the jet felt for him. It made him feel even worse as he forced himself to admit what had nearly happened.

_::I… before, when you were giving Ratchet the gels. My coding, it-::_

_::I know, Drift. I felt it.::_ The jet’s optics came online with a dim amber glow and he raised his helm slightly, gracing Drift with one of his dazzling smiles. _::You’re doing amazingly well.::_

If Drift made the sound he wanted to make he’d disturb Ratchet. He settled for raising an optical ridge and letting Wing feel his scepticism.

_::I’m being serious. New coding is difficult to deal with at the best of times, and right now you’re not letting the unfamiliar instincts control you. Despite the method of our Bonding I have_ no _regrets about being Bound to someone as remarkable as you.::_

Drift had to cycle his optics to clear away fluid that threatened to overflow them. The respect and admiration Wing sent through their Bond was unmistakably genuine and he wasn’t sure how to react, not when faced with this impossible situation. He felt embarrassed heat rush to flush his horns and faceplates so he offlined his optics, dropping his helm to the nest with a _thump_ in order to escape the fond amusement he just _knew_ would be shining from Wing’s optics at the sight of his blush. He still couldn’t understand how Wing could think these things about him, could feel like that about him. It had taken a long time but Drift had finally come to accept statements like this as one of those odd things that made his mate the person he was, even if he still couldn’t quite bring himself to believe them.

_::What are we going to_ do _, Wing?::_ Drift decided changing the subject was in order, before Wing tried to make him flush any harder and possibly disturb Ratchet. The Incubator was finally resting and really needed it, if his EMF was any indication.  _::I’ve seen similar things before, but I don’t know_ anything _about coding, especially the kinds of conflicts Ratchet’s dealing with. I don’t think he’d be all the way out here if the Autobots could help him.::_

_::And we’re indebted to him, as well.::_ Wing’s sending was sombre and Drift heard him shifting about on the other side of the medic’s frame _. ::No matter what, we have to try.::_

It was obvious that the older Ovaria was just as far out of his depth as Drift felt, possibly even more so.

_::I know this is really soon, but what do you think about following him if he goes back before he’s stable?::_ Drift asked hesitantly, running his thumb carefully over the strong, blanket-covered shoulder beneath his hand. _::Not as Autobots or anything, but just to look after him. Maybe bodyguards or assistants or something, if he’ll let us. We both know some first aid and that’s better than nothing. That way we can be close enough to help him if something goes_ really _wrong.::_

There were so many things that could go wrong that Drift didn’t need to explain what he meant. Everything from another episode like the one he’d walked in on to Ratchet’s Syngnathi nature being discovered and having to rescue him from the clutches of ex-friends and coworkers intent on vivisection. It was obvious that Wing was tempted by the idea of accompanying Ratchet, even if it meant going towards the war he’d fled so long ago.

He gave Wing as long as he needed to think over his suggestions, resting quietly and basking in the closeness of two cherished Fields. He remembered his words in the washracks, wondering with a sick lurch of his Spark if Ratchet even realised he’d meant every word he’d said. Ratchet was smart, way smarter than Drift. _Surely_ he’d know. Even Wing knew that Drift’s feelings for the Incubator had grown during the short time they’d been living together. Wing’s own attraction to the medic was obvious and Drift hadn’t kept his feelings hidden from his mate.

Their quiet humming was the only sound in the room now that Ratchet’s systems were no longer running high from stress. Sighing, Drift pressed his forehelm against Ratchet’s shoulder. They all seemed to just _fit_ together so well that it would be hard to go back to the way their life had been before meeting him. In fact, it was becoming almost impossible to imagine.

Abruptly the Incubator’s EMF relaxed and his frame lost the subtle tension that had marked him as still being conscious. Drift’s optics cast bright blue stains on the blanket at the way all three of their Fields suddenly seemed to flow together, combining in a way that eased some tightly-wound part of him he’d never noticed before.

_::It would be best if he could come with us, but I can’t see that happening.::_ Wing finally acknowledged sadly. _::Following him might be a good second choice.::_ Humour and a little mischief tinged his Bond-voice then as he added _::Besides, he doesn’t have to_ let _us follow him, we’re not exactly following a fixed itinerary, after all.::_

_::You’re a menace.::_ Drift sent fondly, adding the impression of a grimace to his words. _::Wing, is this right? The way our Fields are?::_

The Fields of all three Syngnathi were now meshed much more deeply than they had ever been before and Drift couldn’t figure out how or why this level of connection made him feel so safe.

_::It is. Why?::_ His mate sounded confused, glyphs of puzzlement attached to his question.

_::I wasn’t sure.::_ Drift hated having to admit how little he knew about how their kind lived and interacted. He didn’t recall much of his own creators, only having the vaguest memories left of his early life _. ::I don’t remember. This is what it’s supposed to be like? With Kin?::_

No matter how stupid he felt asking questions like this, Drift couldn’t _not_ ask. He needed to know everything he could if he was to help Ratchet. There was just too much at stake to risk screwing up or freaking out at something both of the other Syngnathi knew to be completely normal. Wing’s answer came back with a familiar surge of fondness tinged with pity.

_::It is. Friends or family, mates or lovers, siblings or creations our instinct is to join Fields and seek comfort like this when together in the nest. You and I are a little different because our situation is different, but now that he’s in recharge Ratchet is reacting as coding and instinct dictates.::_

Drift absorbed that, fitting it to what he’d learned from Shockwave and the new influence of adult coding slowly unfolding within his processor. Despite the fact that it was only just past dinner time he could feel his own frame demanding he join the Incubator in recharge. Wing must have felt it, because he sent an affectionate nudge through the Bond.

_::Recharge. I’ll wake you if anything happens.::_

_::Thank you. Love you.::_

_::Love you too.::_

## ~V~V~V~

Ratchet didn’t remember entering recharge.

One moment he was lying stiffly between the Ovaria, trying not to die of shame and hoping (pointlessly) that this was actually a particularly twisted situation his processor decided to throw at him during recharge.

Then time skipped and the next thing he was aware of was two drowsy, relaxed Kin Fields entwined with his own and a pair of large, warm frames curled comfortably against his sides. Despite the circumstances it was honestly the best recharge Ratchet could remember having since moving to Cybertron. Unfortunately it left his processor mercilessly clear and able to recall _precisely_ what had happened over the previous two days.

_Frag. So that happened._

Before he could get sucked into the yawning pit of horror and shame he could feel opening up beneath his mental pedes someone shifted against his side and Ratchet seized on the distraction with grim determination, forcing himself to take stock of his surroundings as best he could without onlining his optics.

Naturally the first thing he noticed was that the Ovaria’s singing had stopped. A close second was how just how _good_ it felt to have their Fields so deeply interwoven with his own. It soothed a nagging hunger deep within his Incubator coding that he’d been steadfastly ignoring for millennia.

An annoying fact of life for Incubators was that if they went too long without being able to successfully court an Ovaria for a clutch their frames and coding began to punish them. Sparked or Unsparked, it didn’t seem to matter so long as their gestation/maturation chamber was placated every now and then.

Having Wing around –beautiful, mature and so _very_ attractive- had made Ratchet even _more_ aware of both the emptiness within him and the code-deep, utterly irrational urge to nurture _anything_ his coding identified as a youngling. So far he’d managed to cope with that desire by siccing most of it onto his patients, feeding the rest into his usual grump and bluster. So far as anyone around him was aware, it was being CMO during a war that was making him gruffer and more antagonistic as time went on.

The presence of the two Ovaria in his daily life had helped reduce the desire to coddle anything small and fragile he encountered but it still wasn’t enough to completely eliminate the demands of his coding. Right now, said code was purring with contentment and the possible implications of two Kin-but-not-Family Ovaria Fields harmonising with his own. Ratchet felt embarrassed heat rising to his faceplates when he realised the wildly implausible direction his musings were threatening to take.

With the ease of long practice he ignored his broody coding and the thoughts it generated. Ratchet took a long inhalation, deliberately sending the flow of air over specialised chemoreceptors. The unique scents of the two Ovaria snuggled up beside him flooded his awareness, something like sun-warmed rock stronger on the side Drift’s EMF was and the thin, cold sweetness of early morning that seemed to follow Wing everywhere was on the other.

A polite ping to his ultra-short-range comms nearly startled Ratchet right out of his armour. He was too thoroughly immobilised by the blanket around him and the frames pressing against his to jump but he still managed to make a completely undignified noise that would have been hilarious in any other situation. Checking the messages showed that the ping consisted of the originator –Wing- and a short text.

[Are you awake?]

His chronometer showed that it was currently some Primus-forsaken time that might be called early morning. The only reason he was even awake was because he’d slipped into recharge far earlier than normal and automatically awoken after his usual amount of rest. If he wanted, Ratchet could let that message sit in his queue and not deal with it until later. He figured Wing would let him get away with pretending to recharge in order to escape the awkward situation. It would be far less painful in the long run to simply continue the charade that this was a casual sleepover. Ratchet knew he was fooling himself by considering it. Better to just deal with it now instead of giving the awkwardness more room to grow.

[Yes.]

His reply was a single glyph but he attached an invitation to move from text-based communication to text-and-internal-voice-comms. The jet accepted the invitation, opening a secure two-way channel between them.

[How are you feeling?]

Ratchet couldn’t control his wince. Of _course_ that was going to be the first thing Wing would ask. His reply was carefully composed with enough truth to satisfy both his conscience and the Ovaria curled up next to him.

[Better than before. I’m sorry you had to see that.]

It was impossible to keep the shame he felt out of the modifiers of remorse attached to his apology. He felt Wing’s hand move to squeeze his blocky pauldron gently, denial of the need for any shame or guilt threading through their EMF contact.

[There is no need for you to apologise] Wing’s comm voice and Field were firm. [We’re here for you, Ratchet. Not just because of the Life Debt or Kin Duty but because you shouldn't have to live with this much hurt. We _want_ to help you.]

Ratchet mulled that over for a while, listening to the little sounds of two frames running at low power and one deep in recharge. His was definitely the noisiest out of the three of them, simply because he lacked the stealth mods Drift had and his self-repair was working harder than Wings was. Combined with the deep, regular ventilations coming from Drift it made a pleasant backdrop to his thoughts as he tried to find the least offensive way to word what he wanted to say.

[Look, Wing. I’m not rejecting your offer but the simple fact of the matter is that none of the counsellors in the entire Autobot army was considered capable or discreet enough to deal with my situation and I couldn’t exactly let a coding specialist go poking around in my brain module willy-nilly, which is why I’m out here.]

It was surprisingly easy for Ratchet to unburden himself like this. Lying here with his optics off, his frame comfortable and warm, two sleepy Kin Fields blending with his in a peaceful three-part harmony. There was a dreamlike quality to the situation, as if it was separated from reality and somehow existed outside of their normal lives.

[I pulled the ‘too much classified Autobot and patient information’ card and got a leave of absence to try to pull myself together, and you’ve just seen how well that’s been going. I’m at my wits’ end and I just _don’t know_ how anyone could possibly help with the mess I’ve gotten into.] His ventilation system was starting to skip and Ratchet forced himself to cycle it slowly. [I don’t want to be some charity case or lost cause you take on, trying to do the impossible.]

Wing hummed thoughtfully and he _swore_ he could feel the Ovaria frowning at him.

[Leaving you to suffer is more than I can allow. More than Drift can stand, either. We wish to help you find a less detrimental way to deal with the strain of your coding.] Wing’s glyphs were formal and obstinate. [We are all Syngnathi so there is no for you need to worry about discovery. We have three completely different sets of life experiences and ways of thinking to use here. Getting a fresh perspective might help you see things you couldn’t before. Even though none of us are coding specialists or counsellors I _wouldn’t_ say the situation is impossible.] The jet’s unrelenting optimism really made Ratchet want to smack him sometimes. [Difficult and unpleasant? Yes. But _not_ impossible.]

That last jab was delivered with affection and markers of teasing acknowledging a deliberate double-meaning. Leaping on the chance to take the conversation back to the initial illusion of casualness Ratchet reacted as Wing probably expected him to.

[I’ll show you ‘difficult and unpleasant’] Ratchet growled reflexively over comms, earning a smothered chuckle from the Ovaria.

Drift reacted to the noise by mumbling something and burrowing into the Incubator’s side, wrapping an arm securely around Ratchet’s torso. Ratchet froze. He could feel Wing’s frame trembling with suppressed laughter.

[I forgot to warn you; Drift sometimes gets a bit cuddly when he’s recharging.]

[I can see that.] He said dryly as Drift took one of his arms hostage, blanket and all. The younger Ovaria pulled it to his chest so he could use Ratchet’s upper arm as a pillow. With his helm resting solidly on Ratchet’s arm he subsided back into deep recharge with a contented purr that made the Incubator’s Spark surge in his chest. [I _think_ I’ll survive.]

[Please tell me if it makes you uncomfortable so I can peel him off you.] Wing said, fondness for his mate filling his comm-voice and glyphs.

[I’ll keep that in mind.] Ratchet said, surprisingly reluctant to lose the contact. He distracted Wing by changing the subject again. [There’s no way I can talk you two out of this, is there?]

[I’m afraid not.] Wing’s voice was sombre, gentle apology filling his subglyphs.

[I thought so.] Ratchet let resignation and acceptance fill his Field, unable to completely keep the bitterness he also felt out of it.

Everything seemed to be conspiring against him. The Life Debt, Kin Duty and now his own traitorous coding was picking up subtle shifts in Wing’s unguarded EMF. The instinct to obey, to show himself worthy of being entrusted with the Ovaria’s eggs was poking its metaphorical head out of the part of his processor he’d banished it to earlier.

_Frag off, that’s_ not _the point_ _of this._

As well as that stubborn harmonic that triggered Ratchet’s coding there was unexpected fatigue in Wing’s Field which made him check his chronometer again. He was pleasantly surprised to discover that there was still a decent chunk of time left in the night.

[Get some recharge, Wing.] Ratchet said, nudging the jet gently with his Field. [I’m not going anywhere without my arm.]

[Good point.] Wing agreed mischievously.

The next moment he shocked Ratchet into onlining his optics by mimicking Drift’s posture, taking hold of Ratchet’s other arm and cradling it against his frame, resting his helm on the reinforced armour of Ratchet’s upper arm. He didn’t go _quite_ so far as to wrap his arm around the Incubator the way his mate had done, but Ratchet would bet good shanix that Wing had seriously considered doing it.

[Pleasant Recharge, Ratchet.] Was sent with cheerful subglyphs before Wing cut the commlink and his systems immediately began to slow down, Field smoothing into the gentle fuzz of recharge.

The conversation he'd overheard on the first day they'd met replayed in his mind and Ratchet felt his armour flex in reaction.

_He really_ is _a terror. How does Drift survive him?_

Ratchet stared at the darkened ceiling for several long minutes while his Spark twisted in his chest, quietly committing the moment to memory before allowing himself to follow the other two back into recharge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There, the long-awaited cuddle pile. I hope it makes up for the feels damage of the last few chapters.  
> It's gonna be a wee bit awkward in the morning, but that's life.  
> You're not seeing things. The number of planned chapters has increased. Future plot things needed expanding :/


	14. Uncertainty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cuddle piles and extremely awkward wake-ups.  
> The doctor didn't order it but he got them anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not 100% happy with this but posting at anyway. Reasons after the chapter.

# Fourteen

Despite the weariness weighing him down Wing wasn’t planning to let himself recharge. Ratchet trying to sneak off wasn’t a consideration any more. The Incubator was completely right about not being able to leave the nest without waking them. Not now, anyway. It was a different issue that had Wing determined to stay awake.

When he first found Drift, long before Aequitas had forcibly Sparkbonded them Wing had learned that Drift had exactly three recharge modes and could switch between them with little or no warning. There was the typical light rest broken by the smallest noise, hallmark of a frontline soldier, this deep recharge he was in now where Drift would wrap himself around anything within range and cling to it until he awoke. What worried Wing right now was the potential for the third state, violent nightmares the likes of which Wing had never seen before.

By now the jet knew what to look for, the warning signs of Drift’s recharge turning down a bad path. Through trial and error he’d learned how to wake the younger Ovaria before he got to the point of screaming and thrashing at imaginary foes.

No matter how badly he wanted to recharge like the other two Syngnathi Wing knew it would be better if he stayed awake. He couldn’t risk Drift starting a nightmare unnoticed and have it develop to the point of shrieking terror, not with Ratchet there. Waking in a strange place to the sound of bloody murder wasn’t pleasant at the best of times and right now it was the last thing Ratchet needed. Looking back, Wing suspected that Ratchet had nightmares of his own. It made sense given the way he’d sometimes be up and around far earlier than he should be and often looked far more stressed and haunted than anyone should do first thing in the morning.

Just dozing quietly was restful enough for Wing, listening to the quiet whistling of Ratchet’s vents and basking in the deep merge of their three Syngnathi EM Fields. He hadn’t experienced this kind of peace in millennia and was determined to savour every moment of it. Before the Circle fled Cybertron Wing hadn’t realised how much he’d taken for granted. There were so many things intrinsic to Syngnathi culture, basic necessities of life for his kind that had been ripped away without warning. Some things he had anticipated, some things he had been prepared for but nothing could have prepared him for Blackbird’s death. Afterwards he had struggled by himself, trying to find workable substitutes for things he hadn’t realised he wouldn’t have. Some things He’d just had to do without, no matter how hard it was at times.

Finding Drift wandering the desert had been a mixed blessing. He had resented it at times but even with the forced Bond Wing knew he’d do it all again in a sparkbeat. He tightened his grip on Ratchet’s arm, basking in the Incubator’s Field.

_I’ll_ never _take this for granted again._

Wing inhaled deeply, taking in the warm, dusty trace of his mate and the richer mouth-watering fragrance of the Incubator between them. Ratchet’s scent was faint; the sharp tang of acidic cleanser covered it almost completely. However faint it was it was still there and Wing’s coding sang at having Ratchet so close. He wished it was under better circumstances, that the Incubator was here of his own accord and not because he was hurting so badly. He’d never seen anything like this before. The Ovaria knew that Ratchet would need far more than this kind of basic support in order to heal but he had no idea of where to start. The whole situation seemed completely impossible to solve.

He didn’t like feeling this helpless.

_What are we going to do?_

Someone stirred, armour scraping quietly over the sounds of recharge-slowed systems. Wing onlined his optics to check on Drift, searching for the tell-tale signs of a nightmare about to begin.

His mate was fine. In fact, if the expression on his face was anything to go by then Drift was _better_ than fine. He was recharging more peacefully than he had in the entire time Wing had known him, faceplates and Field relaxed and the tiniest hint of a smile lifting the corner of his mouth. Wing cycled his vents in relief and felt a fond smile tug at the corner of his own mouth as he watched his mate.

_I wonder if he looked the same curled up with Shockwave? Somehow I doubt it._

Some half-aware impulse flitted across their Bond and Drift shifted again, one arm groping blindly in Wing’s direction. Carefully, Wing unwrapped one of his hands from where he’d been holding Ratchet as tightly as he dared and reached for Drift, taking his mate’s hand before his awkward fumbling could wake the exhausted medic. He interlaced their fingers and squeezed gently, sending reassurance and comfort to Drift until the younger Ovaria sighed and slid back into deep recharge.

Not for the first time the jet wondered if they could somehow convince the Incubator to come with them. The desire to do so was more urgent now, knowing what the war had done to Ratchet. Was _still_ doing to him, even this far away from the battlefields. No matter how much he recovered out here it would all unravel again soon after he went back. The thought of it made Wing want to cry.

_He’s worth so much_ more _than this, he deserves so much more than a functioning filled with pain. How can he not_ see _that?_

They would have other problems to deal with, and soon. Besides figuring out how to help Ratchet there was now Drift’s newly awakened adult coding to consider.

So long as Drift’s adult coding had remained dormant, Wing was the dominant Ovaria of their two-Syngnathi social group by default. Now that Drift appeared to be maturing they would have to settle thing between them in a more lasting way. Even though they were both sensible (well, sensible depending on who you asked) common sense and reason were guaranteed when it came to dealing with the deeper coding of their kind. Then there was the Greatswords and their Sparkbond which would also complicate matters. Wing ground his denta, trying to anticipate the worst-case scenario and find a way around it.

_We don’t have_ time _for this slag!_

The timing was absolutely _abysmal_. They couldn’t _afford_ a dominance tussle, not with Ratchet’s situation so precarious. They needed to focus on helping the Incubator, not inflicting more stress on him while they sorted things out!

With a surge of guilt Wing caught the others EM Fields reacting to the frustration he’d accidentally projected and forced himself to unclench his jaw, cycle his vents and put his emotions aside to deal with later. Ratchet shifted, finding a more comfortable position in the nest and his helm rolled to the side, forehelm coming to rest against the top of Wing’s helm. Both Ovaria automatically moved to accommodate the change in position despite Drift being deep in recharge.

The Incubator sighed, his warm exhalation ghosting across the sensors of Wing’s horns and making them tingle. Incredibly, Ratchet’s engine rolled in a faint purr that continued for several vent cycles. Wing’s Spark almost stopped spinning from sheer incredulous joy as he felt Ratchet sink down into the deepest recharge possible this side of stasis and the purr trailed off.

_I should enjoy this while it lasts._

Subconsciously pulling Ratchet’s arm a little closer to his chest, Wing let himself relax, basking in the harmony of their Fields. Despite his best intentions exhaustion eventually got the better of him and he joined the other Syngnath in recharge.

 

### ~V~V~V~V~V~V~V~

 

Drift awoke to an unfamiliar alarm. He really didn’t want to get up and find out what it was for, because he was having the best damn recharge of his entire functioning and being forced out of it to deal with some sort of emergency was just plain cruel.

_Life is cruel; get used to it._

The advice was old but still good so Drift reluctantly slogged his way back to consciousness, grumbling low in his vocaliser the instant his vocal systems initialised. It wasn’t a ship alarm, just some internal one with a secondary audio function. Safe to ignore. Rejecting the need to be awake he burrowed his helm under Wing’s arm, trying to hide from the infernal noise while he nudged his mate over their Bond and gave his hand a squeeze, trying to get the jet to shut his blasted alarm off so he could pass out again.

“’S mine.” A familiar voice came from somewhere very close at hand, rough with recharge and what sounded like minor vocaliser damage.

_What?_

The alarm stopped and Drift suddenly realised that his EM and olfactory sensors were registering a third presence in their nest, one so out-of-place he’d assumed the blissfully harmonious state of their EM Fields was some fuzzy holdover from a recharge fantasy that was just slower to clear than usual. He’d been recharging far deeper than he normally and his memory cache helpfully let him know why.

_My adult coding is setting up and Ratchet’s here because he’s really,_ really _unhappy._

It was about then Drift realised it was _Ratchet’s_ arm and not Wing’s that he was trying to use as an improvised shield against the waking world. Even though he wanted to die of embarrassment Drift was still _just_ drowsy enough to make a grumpy noise instead of freaking out, and just awake enough to successfully resist the urge to burrow deeper into the shelter of the Incubator’s solid presence. He got a hold of his Field and filled it with as much nonchalance as he could. Pretending everything was normal, reluctantly pulling his helm out from under Ratchet’s arm and letting go of Wing’s hand to roll onto his back, _away_ from the inviting bulk and warmth of the medic’s frame.

Once he was safely on his back Drift brought his optics online and stretched, cycling his vents to clear them of any bits of lint or dust that might have worked their way in overnight. Ratchet seemed to be following his lead and playing it cool so Drift continued to act as if this was nothing out of the ordinary, like they all woke up in the same nest every morning and it wasn’t a one-off that Drift would happily sacrifice an arm and both legs to experience again.

He shoved the thought aside and sat up, glancing casually at the other Syngnathi and wondering what he’d add to their morning fuel. The slightly unfocused look in Ratchet’s optics accompanied by the rapidly changing expressions flicking across his faceplates showed that the medic was deep in a conversation over internal comms. Wing was still resting peacefully, holding Ratchet’s other arm hostage with one of his own arms lying atop the one he’d taken captive, fingers hooked securely into the gaps of Ratchet’s shoulder armour. The alarm didn’t seem to have bothered him at all and Drift felt a brief surge of exasperated fondness.

_He could be faking, too. Sneaky slagger is good at that._

A gentle nudge through their bond brought finally Wing out of recharge, the jet releasing Ratchet’s arm with a sigh and rolling smoothly up to his hands and knees to stretch his flightpanels out. Drift admired the view and hid a smile when he saw Ratchet’s optics flicker and shift, focusing on Wing.

_I wonder if he’s having trouble with that comm-call right now? That’s one fine-looking jet and Wing knows how pretty he is._

“That was the Autobot Frigate.” Ratchet explained, apparently finished with his private comm call. “The survivor from the shuttle wants to see me. They’re in a funny orbit so it’ll be an overnight trip.”

Before the Incubator finished speaking Drift was sending Wing a strong impression of caution. He could feel his mate’s strong desire to coddle Ratchet; born of the awkwardness of the situation they now found themselves in and Wing’s lack of understanding when it came to these kinds of things.

For a brief moment the urge to throttle some sense into Wing flashed across Drift’s processors, tinged with the energon-stained snarl of Deadlock’s reaction to stupidity. Ratchet was exactly the same mech he’d been a day ago; all that had changed was what _they_ knew about his situation. As much as both he and his mate wanted to protect the medic, Drift knew that trying to wrap Ratchet in foam padding would be _extremely_ counterproductive.

“How well do you think they’ll react to a neutral warrior and a notorious ex-Decepticon coming to borrow the washracks?” Drift asked, ignoring the severe look Wing was giving him.

Ratchet made a face.

“Badly, to say the least.” His Field filled with apology and chagrin. “They know I have Cybertronian houseguests but not who. I’ve got a few hours to make myself presentable before the next orbital shuttle leaves.”

The last sentence was said in an overly-controlled tone of voice. Drift had one blissful moment of complete ignorance before Ratchet pushed himself to a sitting position and the reason slapped both Ovaria in the face. A large patch of silver shone bare in the middle red enamel where Ratchet had accidentally scrubbed his back armour down to bare metal the night before.

“I can put some fuel together while you two do touch-ups, if you like.” Drift offered, knowing Wing would become unbearable without some way to directly help.

A little too late Drift realised that even with their common coding the Incubator might not want to be touched right now. Conflict flitting briefly through Ratchet’s unusually open Field confirmed it but before Drift could say anything it was replaced with the same resignation that had poured from Ratchet the previous day when they’d sheltered with their frames and he’d allowed himself to cry on Wing’s shoulder. The memory rose to choke Drift and he forced his processor away from it, resisting the urge to wrap his arms around Ratchet and not let go until he was absolutely certain the medic would be alright.

Keeping his Field under such tight control it almost ached, Drift pushed himself up to his pedes and immediately smacked both horns on the roof. The unexpected flash of pain sent him into a crouch, wrapping his arms protectively over his helm.

“OW! What the FRAG?!” Drift yelled, voice muffled by his knees.

_That’s never happened in here before._

He risked raising his helm to shoot a suspicious glare up at the ceiling and the two neat white scrapes of his enamel that now decorated it. A mixture of concern and bright amusement came from his mate, accompanied by a muffled snorting that sounded exactly like Wing failing to smother his laughter. Drift glared resentfully at his mate which only made Wing laugh harder.

_At least_ Ratchet _isn’t laughing at me._

“You’re a bit taller than normal this morning, Drift.” Wing pointed out. “You might want to transform if you don’t want to trash the ceiling.”

Drift growled something nasty and Wing sighed, stepping carefully out of their misshapen nest and placing a steadying hand on Drift’s pauldron. There was amusement threading through the tension in the jet’s Field and Drift wondered if Wing was glad of the distraction he’d accidentally provided. It made it just that little bit easier to pretend that everything was just fine, this was normal and they weren’t all skirting around the events of the previous day cycle. The earth saying of an elephant in the room seemed very appropriate to the size of the problem facing them.

_If an elephant was as big as a Metrotitan._

“Here, let me see.” The older Ovaria said with exaggerated concern, ignoring Drift’s scathing response and giving both of his horns a thorough examination. “It’s just the outer layer of enamel; you’ll regenerate that pretty quickly. Would you like a second opinion from the medical expert?”

“If he’s snarling like that it’s nothing serious.” Ratchet commented but Drift still felt the tingle of medical scans running over his frame. “Yes, he’s lost a little enamel and suffered some ego damage. They’ll both regenerate just fine without medical intervention.”

Wing burst into slightly strained laughter. Knowing his mate as well as he did, Drift thought it sounded a little hysterical around the edges. He resumed his Cybertronian form and rose from his crouch slowly, swatting at his giggling mate.

“You shut up.” Drift grumped without any real heat. “I’m going to go make breakfast for Ratchet and me. I’ll even be nice and make some for you, _if_ you think you’re brave enough to drink it.”

It wasn’t a serious threat and Wing knew it. They were all used to bantering like this and Ratchet knew them well enough by now to know that joking around was their most common way of dealing with tense situations.

_Besides fragging or sparring, that is._

“Here.” Wing snagged Drift before he could move, pressing a soft kiss to each scraped horn and releasing him. “There you go, all better.”

Not daring to look at Ratchet, Drift made his escape while he could. He could feel his horns and faceplates scorching with embarrassed heat and he didn’t know how good the Incubator’s infrared vision was.

Despite his threat Drift didn’t tamper with what he added with their morning fuel. Instead he worked from what he knew of their individual tastes and created individual blends that humans would probably refer to as ‘comfort food’. When he was satisfied he set the three sturdy mugs on a tray and carried them through into the living area.

He found the others hard at work. Ratchet was standing in the middle of a tarp spread across the floor, filling scrapes and gouges in his forearm enamel with thick nanite filler-paste while Wing worked on the large bare patch Ratchet had accidentally scrubbed into his back armour. Fine grey lines criss-crossing his red and white plating showed where the medic had already finished fixing the enamel of his upper arms and thighs. They created a map showing exactly where and how the shuttle wreckage had caught at him while he fought to pull the survivors from it.

They were using an enamel mixture every Cybertronian carried, one formulated with nanites that would accept programming from a mech’s own chromatonanites and physical systems. Wing had obviously grabbed their own supplies from Crystal City for this and the stuff wasn’t much different from what Drift had used in the Decepticons, except for being far better quality.

From past experience Drift knew that you could quite literally splash the same bucket of this dull grey sludge over three different mecha and it would just adapt as needed. Fancy detailing wouldn’t come through, not without preparing the solution in advance. You couldn’t recolour the resulting layer of enamel-analogue either, not unless you’d been through the hideously long process of stripping each piece of your armour back to base metal and applying paint formulas that would alter the colour of what your nanites produced. It could be done with internal reprogramming too, but the tedious and uncomfortable business of a full repaint was less invasive and far more comfortable. Most mecha preferred the inconvenience of a full repaint over the weeks of itching and flaking as their chromatonanites replaced the old colours.

_I’m glad I got a strip-and-paint in Crystal City instead of going around all patchy white-and-grey. I‘d have looked like one of those spotty horses Wing likes._

Wing was back in his Cybertronian form with a brush in hand, halfway through covering the bare patch on Ratchet’s upper back. He was applying the dark grey paint in smooth strokes, working from the edges inwards. Where he’d started the nanites in the paint were already taking colour input from the chromatonanites of Ratchet’s enamel. A faint blush of red was travelling inwards, following the path of Wing’s brush. Interrupting the jet at this point would be counterproductive so Drift quietly traded Ratchet the tube of filler and little spatula for the mug energon he’d prepared for the medic, putting the tray on the couch within easy reach of both himself and Wing before settling down and working on the gouges in Ratchet’s lower legs.

As Ratchet sipped his fuel and let the Ovaria tend to his paint their Fields slowly slid into a public synchronization that was far more awkward and hesitant than it had been just two days ago. Drift ached for the deeper meshing of Fields he’d experienced when Ratchet had slipped into recharge between Wing and himself. Now that Drift had experienced the kind of _rightness_ that came with it he finally understood some of his mate’s unhappiness in Crystal City despite living free from the fear of discovery. It was an unhappiness he could see himself starting to share if…

_Don’t think about that right now._

Shoving his thoughts aside Drift concentrated on finding the worst damage and filling it in. It felt good to touch Ratchet like this, tending to his frame and giving him some of the care he deserved. Drift took shameless advantage of the chance to inspect what he could under the guise of checking for damage to repair. The medic’s armour seemed to be thicker than he remembered from the Dead End, probably upgraded early in the war. It made his already strong frame look even more robust and Drift wanted to stay right where he was for as long as he could in the shelter of Ratchet’s shadow.

Applying the paste carefully Drift could see exactly where Ratchet had kicked something large and heavy away, there was a line of deep scuffs across the outside of his pede. They would fill in just fine on their own but he spread a thin layer over them anyway to speed the process up. The deep gouge where something had glanced off the medic’s lower leg _definitely_ needed seen to and was far deeper than it looked, going right down into the metal of the armour beneath. He was careful to fill this one without catching pockets of air that could trap moisture against the metal and cause a rust infection.

At first glance it seemed that the Incubator’s lower legs had taken more of a beating from the wreckage than the rest of him but Drift noticed that some of what he had taken to be fresh damage was actually much older, the kinds of scratches most mecha picked up in day-to-day life that were usually handled by their own self-repair. Some had only just started to fill in from below as Ratchet’s chromatonanites produced the layer of enamel analogue that protected his armour.

_How long have you been pushing yourself like this?_

Despite how thorough he was being Drift still finished before his mate did. Wing was still steadily spreading paint across Ratchet’s back when Drift shuffled back to lean against the couch and started filling in the few deep marks in his forearms and thigh armour hadn’t gotten around to filling in over the last few weeks. They weren’t that bad, but since he already had the filler Drift figured he may as well do them now.

Eventually Wing broke the silence with a cheerfulness that sounded more than a little forced.

“Ok, you’re done. The nanites should have completely taken up the colour by the time you reach orbit.” The jet scraped as much of the enamel analogue off his brush as he could, wrapping the bristles in a scrap of rag. “It should be set enough to move in a few minutes.”

Ratchet huffed something, shifting his weight from pede to pede but staying obediently still. His fingers twitched, which gave Drift an idea. He thought it over for all of half a minute while the jet picked up his mug of energon and perched on the arm of the couch to drink it.

“Hey Ratchet,” Drift asked, projecting pure cheekiness into his Field. “If you’re not going anywhere for a few minutes could you maybe get the stone chips on my pauldrons?”

He widened his optics hopefully up at the Incubator who had one optical ridge raised so high it threatened to merge with the bottom of his chevron.

“Please do, otherwise he’ll just whine until you give in.” Wing advised, failing to hide a smile behind his mug.

“All right, give it here.” Ratchet sighed.

Not even trying to hide his grin Drift scooted back over and took the empty mug from Ratchet’s hands, pressing the filler and spatula into them instead. Straightening up and rotating his pauldrons as high as they could go he sat perfectly still, giving Ratchet the best possible angle to reach the notched enamel around his wheel wells. An unexpected tangle of complicated emotions from Wing made Drift flinch and glance at his mate. He felt the room-temperature filler past smear across his plating as he tried to untangle the amusement, love and odd uneasiness Wing had sent him.

_What got stuck in_ his _turbines? Ratchet probably feels completely useless right now and doing something will help him feel less like slag._

“Hold still, would you?” Ratchet growled and Drift ducked a little bit too late to miss the flick to his helm crest.

“Sorry.” He was as contrite as he sounded and held obediently still for Ratchet to start work on his pauldrons. Drift carefully avoided his mate’s attempts to catch his optics. He flatly refused to relax to the point where they could use their Bond to communicate in glyphs despite Wing’s insistent prodding.

_Whatever it is we can talk about it later._ Without _an audience._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this chapter took so long. I spent a few weeks not sleeping much and trying not to relapse and now work stress went has shoved me face-first into Sadsville so my brain just isn't working well enough to do the words thing.


	15. Conflict

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drift and Wing have a much-needed conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omg it's been well over a month. I'm so sorry. I'm slowly clawing my way back into the saddle with this fic.  
> HEADS UP: We get some dark-ish mentions of Drift's past and references to self-harm, drug use and suicide in this chapter.
> 
> Recommended listening: I would do anything for love (but I won't do that) -Meatloaf

 

# Fifteen

 

Working to fix Ratchet’s armour helped Wing far more than he’d thought it would. He didn’t feel quite so out of his depth while he was concentrating on getting a smooth, even layer of the enamel analogue spread across the bare metal marring the medic’s backplates. This particular nanite blend was a formula developed in Crystal City, one that adapted to a mechanism’s base colouration much faster than the ones he’d used on Cybertron before the exodus.

_We’ve made so many advances in the City but they don’t benefit anyone but us. It’s not_ right _._

Aequitas pulsed in Wing’s awareness as he wrapped his brush in a rag and set it aside to clean later, warning Ratchet to stay still while the fresh layer of enamel dried and set. It was _hard_ to keep from hovering over the Incubator, especially now that Wing knew just _how badly_ the mech was hurting under his grumpy façade. The normal impulses of his Spark to care for a living being that was suffering aligned with the urges of coding that had been pushing him to fuss over the first Incubator he’d seen in endless empty centuries.

A memory dump threatened to overwhelm Wing, all of his lonely cycles in Crystal City that had ended in unSparked clutches crowding to the front of his mind. He banished it ruthlessly, tagging anything even remotely related to the subject for automatic deletion while he followed Drift’s lead as best he could, acting as normal as possible.

Wing tried, he really did; he gave the medic as much space as he could but it was all but impossible for him not to sit as close as to Ratchet as he felt could get away with. Despite living with the Incubator for several weeks Wing still wanted to immerse himself in Ratchet’s Field, wrap it around himself like a shield and let it ease the desperate loneliness not even the Bond with Drift could touch. He thought he was imagining things sometimes, because it almost seemed like Ratchet’s Field held a special welcome that was just for Wing; a faint vibration that invited him closer and encouraged him to stay. Right now the jet compromised between the need to give Ratchet some space and the desire to be close by perching on the arm of the couch within easy Field-sensing distance and carefully sipping his morning fuel.

While he hadn’t _seriously_ thought Drift would carry through on his mocking threat to tamper with the energon he definitely hadn’t expected the same rich, sweet jet mid-grade Drift made whenever his mate knew he was feeling homesick. He hadn’t expected this amount of thoughtfulness from Drift while he was still so focused on Ratchet.

The kindness was almost too much for him to bear right now. A tight knot formed in Wing’s Spark and travelled to his vocaliser. He was forced to offline the mechanism before he started keening.

He just didn’t know what to _do_. Didn’t know what to do, where to look or what to say. Drift seemed to have everything well under control and Wing was just following along, desperately trying not to screw up. It was completely opposite to how things had normally been for them. Since they’d met it was usually Wing the one who knew more, who took the lead with Drift struggling to adapt to a peacetime existence.

It was a strange turn of events.

The undercurrent of tension in the room was worse than anything Wing had ever felt with Kin before. The only time in his life Wing had felt this awkward around another Syngnath was during the early part of Drift’s time in Crystal City. It was even worse than two weeks ago when Drift and Ratchet had been sidling around their shared past, unfailingly polite and on-edge around each other. Right up until their spectacular argument over Ratchet’s abysmal pantry, an argument which seemed to settle things between them. Wing smiled at the memory, hiding the expression behind his mug.

_I wish it would be that easy to fix this situation_.

Of course it wouldn’t have been just that one argument that fixed things. Wing had no doubts that they’d had conversations he wasn’t privy to, just as he and Ratchet sometimes discussed things when Drift wasn’t around. Their experiences before the war and Wing’s peaceful life in Crystal City would have been just as inconceivable to Drift as the sheer horror of war was to Wing.

_Thank Primus we escaped before it became truly ugly_.

Wing gave himself a mental shake and shut down those lines of thought so firmly he could feel the circuits rerouting power through his processor. In a conscious effort to distract himself he watched Drift finish filling the worst sparring scrapes in his own armour and started a half-joking mental countdown on how long it would take Drift to ask him to help with the rest. He knew his mate well and Drift seemed to be in one of those rare snuggling moods of his that the older Ovaria always looked forward to.

Then Drift asked Ratchet instead.

Wing forgot how to swallow. He sat with a mouthful of sweet fuel, caught between an irrational feeling of betrayal and simple outrage that Drift was imposing upon the Incubator. When Ratchet gave him a confused look Wing advised the Incubator to go along with it, simultaneously trying to send a silent reprimand to Drift.

Only to find himself shut out of the Bond as Drift twitched and shot him a hard look which promised a difficult conversation later.

The speedster didn’t often solicit physical contact like this. He was far more guarded than Wing and those of his clan had been. It was understandable, given his history but the lack of casual touches and physical affection was something that still hurt Wing even though his mate had been deliberately learning what Wing had always known how to do –initiate casual physical contact that didn’t lead to pain or interfacing. The only downside to Drift’s steadily growing confidence with physical affection was that when he sought it out he was the universe’s biggest nuisance until he got what he wanted. At first Drift had been a snarly nuisance but had slowly become to a snappy one, gone through nagging and a mercifully brief period of teasing before settling into what Wing could only describe as the Unicron-spawned combination of cunning warrior and determined cybercat.

_Not that I’m any better, of course_. _But I’m only_ that _bad when I’m overcharged._

“Hold still, would you?” Ratchet growled at Drift, delivering a stinging tap to Drift’s helm crest that made Wing wince in sympathy.

His mate apologised and held himself perfectly still, ignoring Wing who continued trying to communicate through the bond. It was annoying; he wanted to know what the _frag_ Drift thought he was doing, pestering Ratchet like this. Still, Drift refused to let him through. Eventually he gave up trying, saving his energy for later.

Ratchet was less than cooperative when Wing offered to smooth down the fresh paint so it was even with the rest of his enamel. He insisted that it was perfectly fine the way it was and while he appreciated their help he ‘didn’t need to get prissed up like a Towers socialite’ to visit the Frigate.

Even though Wing didn’t understand why Ratchet was so insistent, he yielded to the Incubator’s wishes and started tidying up their brushes instead.

The moment Ratchet left the apartment Wing begin counting his ventilations, listening to the slow, heavy tread of the Incubator as he walked to the street. His transformation sequence sounded healthy enough, the sound of his sturdy grounder engine fading as he headed for the spaceport. Drift was folding the pant-splattered tarp Ratchet had been standing on, wariness in every line of his frame as he finally showed some reaction to the tension in the room.

Suddenly Wing just couldn’t mute his vocaliser any longer.

“We should have gone with him.”

“No, Wing.” Drift straightened up holding the folded cloth tightly in both hands, his optics wary.

Wing pretended he hadn’t heard his mate.

“If we leave now we can still catch up to him, say we want to piggyback on their communications or use their deep-cleaning facilities or something.” Drift was shaking his helm but Wing continued, “We’re both faster than him, even with the speed limits we can catch him before the shuttle takes off.”

“ _No_ Wing.” Drift’s voice sounded pained but his Field was adamant. “We’re _not_ chasing after him and we’re sure as _Pit_ not acting like a pair of nursemaids or broody Incubators hanging all over him like he can’t drive without an escort. That’s _exactly_ what you want to do and _we’re_ _not_ _doing it_.”

The brief hope that had been building within the jet died and turned to anger that was fuelled by his confusion. He felt useless and powerless as he hadn’t done in millennia, not since he’d been forced to helplessly watch as the ship Blackbird was on exploded so violently the fireball reduced everything within a hundred kilometres to charcoal.

_Sabotage. They thought we were both on it. I was_ supposed _to be on it. They didn’t know I had business off-ship that day._

Those responsible had been found and punished but Wing had never lost the horror of that moment. This time he swore he’d do something, _anything_ rather than stand by and watch Ratchet self-destruct.

“It’s nothing like that, Drift. You _saw_ what he’s been doing to himself when he’s alone, you felt his Field last night.” Wing’s voice rose with every sentence. “How can you even _think_ about leaving him alone right now?” He was on his pedes now, gesticulating wildly and nearly shouting at the speedster.

“Because that’s what he _needs_.” Drift was venting deeply and Wing could feel his mate’s composure slipping. “He needs to feel like a competent, autonomous being, like we trust him to be sensible. Which will _not_ happen if we trail along behind him every waking moment.”

“I _do_ trust him to be sensible, Drift.” Wing changed his approach, trying to reason with the younger mech. “But what if something happens while he’s up there? What if he, he needs to do _that_ again and we’re not there to help him?”

Drift’s Field was blazing now. His venting was becoming harsher and his hands twisted the tarp until it looked like the cloth would tear.

“Wing, you _know_ I love you but right now… Primus below, can’t you see that the last thing Ratchet needs right now is us smothering him?” The speedster was pleading with him now, as if _Wing_ were the one being stubborn and unreasonable. “He needs some space to deal with what just happened and the _best_ thing we can do is to give him that space. We need to _show_ that we trust him, to show him that we don’t think he’s broken and pathetic the way he probably thinks he is.”

“Broken and pathe-” Wing couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Those are the _last_ adjectives I’d associate with Ratchet and you know it!”

Wing could feel his control on his form slipping in the face of his rage at such patently absurd statements. His fingertips itched with the urge to extend his claws and Drift’s image wavered before him as his optics changed. His mental appeal to Aequitas went unanswered.

“ _Then we need to show him that!_ ” Drift’s tone was somewhere between a growl and a roar, edged with his old Rodion accent. He flung the tight scroll of tarp aside in a sharp movement. It hit the wall and dropped to the floor with a soft thud. “And we _can’t_ do that by venting all over his exhaust! We need to _show_ him that by not babying him, by _trusting_ _him to be sensible_ and by giving him some fragging _privacy_.”

Drift’s hands were flexing on empty air, his Field nearly incandescent with rage and frustration that was more than a match for Wing’s as the jet tried to reason with the stubbornly inflexible groundframe. It was a throwback to some of their fights during Drift’s early time in New Crystal City but the younger Ovaria wasn’t so easily cowed now. Now Drift’s adult coding now operating Wing no longer had his trump card. Drift’s instinctual deep-coded response to the authority of mature Kin couldn’t be counted on. Not anymore.

“I _do_ trust him to be sensible, dammit!” Wing’s consonants were sharper than diamond as he snapped at Drift. “What I _don’t_ trust is his ability to be sensible when it comes to himself!”

There was a split second of silence as Wing’s words echoed from the walls.

Drift’s optics flared magnesium-bright.

Then he struck.

In an instant Drift was across the room, knocking Wing flat and pinning him beneath the mass of his Syngnathi form. His EM Field _burned_ as it poured over Wing, forcing the older Ovaria onto the defensive. It was like being bathed in boiling acid; old emotional wounds reopened and boosted Drift’s natural aggression to the point where he easily overcame any lingering inhibitions about attacking his elder, his _mate_.

Wing reeled beneath the onslaught, but only for a moment. Long before any normal flyer would have recovered from the shock of being knocked onto his wings the jet was in his true form, setting his heels and arching up to throw Drift off-balance and push him away. His Field followed the physical movement, forming a smooth barrier that the acid of Drift’s fury could find no purchase on.

Guttural words rolled from Drift’s vocaliser, grating curses Wing didn’t understand but could certainly grasp the meaning of. He flared his plating and growled low in his throat as he locked optics with his mate, engine revving to redline and back several timed before shifting up a gear. Wing answered with a harsh snarl, keeping his flightpanels tucked to his backplates but flaring the flaps of his nacelles along with the rest of his armour in a full rage-display.

Before Drift could make things physical again and risk destroying the rented accommodation Wing slammed at his mate with a Field full of pure anger. Drift actually rocked in place momentarily, catching himself and bracing for an assault that never came. Wing allowed his turbines to come online. The tell-tale whine of his fans spinning up created a high-pitched overlay to his snarl and Drift’s growl, his forward intakes flexed slowly, perfectly controlled and threatening. His Field promised that further physical violence would be met and immediately neutralised, reminding Drift of his physical dominance.

Immediately the speedster countered with shafts of unadulterated rage that forced Wing to give ground before he was hit with the sheer _depth_ of Drift’s determination to protect Ratchet from anyone, _everyone_ , including the Ovaria’s own Sparkbonded mate if need be. Somewhere in the tide of emotion was the sense that even if Drift hadn’t consciously acknowledged it yet, the speedster would tear out his own Spark before allowing his actions to harm the Incubator again.

_Oh, Primus_.

In that instant all the fight went out of Wing.

He deflated, armour sliding close to his protoform and turbines winding down as he tried to come to grips with the events of the last day.

The sudden retreat seemed to throw Drift off a little. The speedster’s growl trailed off into silence and his armour relaxed a fraction. This was no true dominance struggle, not yet. They still had to sort that out between them but for now Wing was ready to cede command of the situation to his mate.

_Drift does know more about this sort of thing than I do. He’s_ not _a youngling and I should_ know _that_ _by now_.

“I just don’t get it.” Wing’s voice was a broken whisper when he finally spoke. “How could he _do_ that to himself?”

Drift sighed and finally relaxed his defensive posture, opening his arms to his mate in silent apology. The jet went willingly, cuddling into Drift’s lap and burying his face in the speedster’s neck cables. Strong hands stroked between Wing’s folded flightpanels, gentle claws assessing and correcting plates jammed together by his earlier impact with the ground. Wing pressed into Drift’s hands, shamelessly begging for more of soothing touches as he wrapped his arms around the familiar curves of Drift’s Syngnathi form.

“I envy you for being able to say that, Wing. I really do.” The pain in Drift’s Field was easy to read and Wing pressed a gentle kiss to his mate’s jaw. “It’s a coping mechanism. A bad one, but by the time someone’s desperate enough to do it they’ve done everything else they can think of and _none_ of it has worked. It’s a last resort to try to keep going, using a controllable pain to deal with the unmanageable one inside your mind and Spark.”

“Have you ev-” Wing started to ask before cutting himself off, filling his Field with apology. “No, you don’t have to answer that Drift, I’m sorry.”

“No, ’s ok. I’m ok with most of it now.” Drift backed his words up with his Field, soothing Wing’s tension with his hands. “I didn’t really need to. In Rodion I used Syk or Boosters instead. They made me forget everything, made the world seem like a better place for as long as the high lasted, made life almost bearable for a bit. When they wore off I didn’t _need_ to hurt myself any; the customers did that for me.”

Wing tightened his arms around his mate, surrounding him with all the love and protective ferocity in his Spark and frame. He could feel Drift’s smile against his helm, affection and a strange kind of dark amusement that Wing couldn’t parse came clearly through their bond. He let it go, not sure if he’d understand the explanation any better than he’d understood some of Drift’s other ones when it came to his sometimes dark sense of humour. Drift shifted,  adjusting his position to let Wing curl more comfortably against him. Their armour fit together well but it always felt like there was something missing.

“I saw more of this sort of thing in the early parts of the war than I really did on the streets.” Drift continued, sadness tinging his Field. “Those who couldn’t handle the fighting, those who weren’t strong enough to withstand what the Decepticons were becoming. It was… brutal. And you had to be brutal to survive it. Those who weren’t didn’t last long.”

There was no apology for his past actions in Drift’s voice, even with the layers of Syngnathi harmonics. He was just acknowledging the facts.

“I was too busy enjoying having some power for a change to really worry about anyone else.” Drift took a long, shuddering ventilation and Wing felt a brief flicker of familiar worry in his mates EMF. He silently reminded the speedster that he knew damn well that he had no grounds to stand in judgement over Drift’s past.

Drift’s next words blew a hole in the fragile calm they’d achieved.

“Decepticons who couldn’t adapt either defected… or offlined.”

A cold trickle of fear ran down Wing’s spinal struts and he shivered. Drift had unconsciously expanded on his words with Bond-shared images.

“He’s got us though, love.” The speedster said, tightening his hold on Wing even as the jet’s armour clamped down and he shivered. “Even if he doesn’t like it and even if he doesn’t really believe it. I promise, Wing. We’re not going to let him fade without a fight.”

His glyphs held all the weight of a formal oath and Wing dimmed his optics, whispering his own against Drift’s chestplates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that made up for the stupidly long delay while I kicked my brain back into some sort of functionality and got words working again. And you're not seeing things with the projected chapter count. I had to split the next chapter up into a smaller and medium-sized one instead of letting it grow out of control ^.^; Oops?


	16. Quandaries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ratchet gets time and space to process recent happenings.  
> Optimus throws him an unexpected lifeline.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this update took so long. NaNoWriMo happened and then general work and life dramas *faceplant* this fic is a bit heavy for me to manage right now. I'm trying but not getting very far very fast. The next chapter is drafted and I'm trying to poke at the one after that but it's very slow going.

# Sixteen

 

Despite what he expected of this little jaunt, Ratchet found it was surprisingly calming to be around mechs who didn’t know him by anything other than his rank and reputation. People who didn’t know about either his double nature or the reason for his being out here. Pretending everything hadn’t just gone completely to Pit for the Frigate’s crew gave him a much-needed respite from the emotional rollercoaster of the last few days.

It was breathing space Ratchet desperately needed before he gave in to the temptation to just crawl back into his nest and tell the entire universe to get slagged.

His quiet worries about his reception by the Frigate medics were all for naught. Contrary to what he expected, _none_ of the medical staff blamed him for only being able to save one of the Cybertronian victims of the accident. In fact they seemed to think it was near-miraculous that he’d managed to save the mech he had, given the multispecies nature of the planet, its infrastructure and the lack of facilities for their species.

Not for the first time in his life Ratchet was glad that Cybertronian EMF sensors were faairly weak when compared to those of Syngnathi. He was more than capable of hiding the distinctive harmonic of his kind but no matter how hard he tried the Incubator knew that some of his true feelings were escaping his control to taint his Field with the same emotional sludge that was contaminating his Spark. However, where Drift or Wing would have noticed instantly the mechs around Ratchet didn’t pick up on the subtle fluctuations. What the purely Cybertronian mechs of the Frigate identified and responded to was the façade of calm confidence Ratchet was projecting with grim determination, passing any strong slips off as simple tiredness.

He finally learned the survivor’s designation.

Nobody he recognised but Ratchet wished he could scrub the entire incident from his memory banks all the same. He said and did what was expected of him until he was finally shown to the tiny habsuite the Frigate reserved for visiting officers. The habsuite door closed behind him not a moment too soon. As soon as he locked the door and set his status to ‘Do not Disturb’ Ratchet felt his mask begin to crumble.

_What am I going to do?_

Finally alone, the Incubator sank down onto his borrowed berth and buried his helm in his hands. His processor was spinning with the events of the past few days, unable to imagine how so much could have gone wrong in so short a space of time.

Or how he could possibly begin to deal with it all.

First the accident and the lives he hadn’t been able to save, trying to atone for that in the face of his twisted coding and then… then Drift and Wing discovering his secret. The dark, unspeakable secret that made him wish it was physiologically possible for a Cybertronian to die of shame.

 _What am I going to_ do?

His processor baulked and stalled as he tried to find a way to undo the damage he’d done to the friendship that had slowly grown between the Ovaria and himself. He’d certainly lost any respect they’d ever had for him. It was gone now, as surely as the respect of Autobot officers who knew the _real_ reason behind Ratchet’s little ‘holiday’.

The image of Drift bursting into the steam-clouded washracks like an avenging angel kept replaying in Ratchet’s mind. He couldn’t seem to stop the loop as the short scene played out over and over again, followed by the slow path Drift’s slit-pupilled blue optics had taken as the younger Ovaria inventoried the damage to Ratchet’s armour and protoform; the way steam had condensed on the lethal curves of red-and-white armour and frowning faceplates, the surge of Drift’s EMF and the way he’d refused to leave, holding Ratchet as he’d broken down not once but _twice_ , both Ovaria supporting him the second time as Ratchet’s carefully-maintained charade came crashing down around him for the second time in less than a vorn.

 _Please,_ please _can this all just be a bad dream. I had a reaction to those emergency rations and this is some crazy recharge illusion my processor spat out._

Life was rarely that kind, and Ratchet hadn’t become CMO by indulging much in wishful thinking.

The worst had happened and now he’d just have to find a way to deal with it.

Ratchet rubbed his faceplates and then at the armour of his shoulders. His plating tingled, and it wasn’t from his chromatonanites incorporating the recent application of paint and filler into his protective enamel layer. His Spark pulsed with yearning as he remembered waking to the unexpected and completely welcome merging of three Syngnathi EM Fields. He could still feel every place the Ovaria had touched, couldn’t seem to shake the feeling of their armour against his, smooth and firm and reassuring to the deepest parts of his being. Their warmth seemed to linger on his plating against all logic and common sense and he wanted it back, wanted to feel it again for real instead of this phantasmal memory.

Before he could chase that thought string down or think too deeply into the reasons for it, someone pinged Ratchet’s personal comms. The ID attached to the extremely polite and apologetic request was one of the ship’s communications mechs. Despite feeling uneasy about the ping, Ratchet immediately jumped on the distraction from his thoughts.

[Yes?]

[CMO Ratchet, there is a call for you from Optimus Prime. Should I patch it through to the console in your quarters?]

For a moment Ratchet was confused, then he remembered that the habsuites generally used as guest quarters for officers aboard Frigates of this class came with their own tiny communications consoles. The sinking feeling turned to outright dread as he responded.

[Patch it through.]

[Understood.]

He gave himself a shake; flexing his armour and settled himself, schooling his expression and setting an automatic deletion order for unproductive thoughts of Drift and Wing so that Optimus wouldn’t see reflected on his faceplates the combination of defeat and hopelessness that filled him whenever he remembered the pair of Ovaria and what they now knew about him.

A clear view of Optimus from the shoulders up appeared on the small viewscreen and Ratchet automatically analysed what he could see of the Prime’s frame for signs of damage; of scratches and dulled chromatonanites that would mean Optimus had sustained heavy damage his self-repair was still working on or that the mech was suffering significantly increased stress.

To his intense relief Optimus seemed to be much the same as he had been when Ratchet left. The set of his optics and armour showed the same nervous tension it had the last time Ratchet had spoken with him. He could see Optimus’ optical inlets spiral wide and contract. The mech was doubtlessly conducting his own examination of Ratchet, trying to work out how much damage the shuttle accident and related casualties had done to his already battered psyche.

 _I wish that was the only thing I had to worry about right now_.

It was Optimus who broke the silence.

“News of the accident has reached us already. How are you, old friend?”

Ratchet couldn’t hide his wince at the choice of opening question. The Prime was usually more diplomatic than this. With the aid of the deletion order helping to filter Ratchet’s thoughts, enough of the medic’s usual temper resurfaced for him to give Optimus a sardonic look. Even though they had to choose their words with care, he _knew_ Optimus could do better than that!

“Better than I expected.” Ratchet admitted ruefully. “I nearly fell on my face when I got back to my apartment. You know about the two neutrals, I presume?” He paused until Optimus nodded and made a motion for Ratchet to continue. “They’re decent sorts. They made sure I reached berth without an accident, at least.”

_Flash of warmth/arms around him/Kin Fields supporting his_

“Even helped me scrub the gunk out of my plating this morning.” Ratchet continued, hoping his lase hadn’t been noticeable and wondering where the frag it had come from. “The washracks here are decent but they’re not up to handling worse than everyday grime.”

This seemed to satisfy Optimus. In fact he looked relieved and even a little pleased to hear that Ratchet had other Cybertronians living with him.

_Drift snuggling into him/Wing teasing, kidnapping his arm/the Ovaria's voices joined in song_

Ratchet shook his helm sharply, trying to clear the random memory fluxes that kept trying to hijack his attention.

“Ratchet?” Optimus’ voice was piercing, edged with worry.

“Just tired, Optimus. Memory fluxes.” Ratchet settled on a partial truth. “It’s been a long couple of days. Right now what I need is a recharge cycle long enough to get a decent defrag in.” As he spoke, Ratchet realised he was telling the truth.

Last night his self-repair systems had taken priority, shutting him down into a recharge so deep he was below the lower boundary for defrag cycle to initiate. He felt like he was missing something with these memory fluxes. Something important. With everything so put out of place he had no hope of figuring out what it was.

“I understand.” Optimus sounded like he understood more than Ratchet had intended to say. “In that case I will not keep you long. One of our coding specialists has compiled some information on medic coding for you to look at. I know you are supposed to be on holiday but I would like you to take a look at this, with an optic to creating a modified version that can help make our field medics more adaptable. Right now they have the abilities and the knowledge but I am told that the main stumbling block is the amount of time it takes to route those through systems not meant to handle that kind of information. There are some brilliant adaptations being made, but as you know, in a crisis those extra few seconds can make all the difference.”

 _They already have what he’s asking for. I_ know _they do. This is for me, to compare my corrupted coding to. This… might be useful._

“Thank you, Optimus.” It was all he could really say.

_Scents of stone and morning air/Drift sitting at his pedes/Wing’s laugh_

“I will have Blaster encode and transmit the information to the Frigate. It should be there by the time you awake.” The dermal metal around Optimus’ optics crinkled in a smile. “Get some recharge, old friend. You look like you’re about to whether you want to or not.”

Ratchet’s lips quirked upwards and he snorted through his vents, rolling his optics at the Prime.

“Same goes to you. First Aid _is_ authorised to knock you out, you know.”

“Pleasant recharge, Ratchet.”

“You too. Goodnight, Optimus.”

The line closed and Ratchet sighed, pinching the top of his olfactory housing. Without Optimus’ voice over the comms he realised just how quiet the room was, filled with a thick silence broken only by the sounds of his own frame.

 _Soundproofing_. _Haven’t had_ that _in a while_.

Memories of the soft nocturnal noises that would come from Drift and Wing rose unhelpfully in his thoughts. Ratchet fiddled with the deletion script, setting an automatic end-time that _should_ allow him to slip into recharge without spending half the night fretting over things he couldn’t change.

A good defrag cycle was what he needed most right now. He needed to be able to think clearly.

Ratchet shifted around, trying to get comfortable on the borrowed berth. He got the feeling that it was something more than the unfamiliar rooms and the familiar torture of sleeping on a Cybertronian berth that was making it hard to relax. Even when he finally found a more-or-less comfortable position the strange sense of _something missing_ kept nagging at him. Despite the perfectly comfortable temperature of the room the Incubator somehow felt cold, exposed and more than a little lonely.

Understanding hit him just as his processor shut down for recharge, the thought not quite fully-formed enough to make it to Ratchet’s memory cache before recharge swept it away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ya know that last sentence right there? I REGRET NOTHING OuO  
> (Yes, he misses Wing and Drift so it's hard to get to sleep and Ratch realises it juuuust before he conks out)


	17. Surrendering to Kindness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wing does something rather ill-advised.  
> That jet has the devils' own luck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Late update is long and awkward as hell. Another one of those chapters I'm never gonna be happy with but I can't tell how much awkwardness is grammar and how much is character feels so here you go /facedesk.  
>  **NOTE: ‘Cue’ and ‘Vair’ are what Ovaria!Wing and his siblings called the Incubator and Ovaria who birthed + raised them. Equivalent to mum/dad/pop/mama etc**

# Seventeen

 

Ratchet’s feeling of reprieve lasted through the rest of his time on the Frigate and most of the way back to his apartment, vanishing the instant he rolled around the corner and saw his building in the distance. His tank dropped and he slowed without warning, earning an angry honk from the vehicle behind him. Grumbling inaudibly the ambulance returned to the residential speed limit and reached his destination much sooner than he wanted to.

The idea of turning around and fleeing popped into his processor. It was extremely appealing but he knew that it would ultimately be a waste of time. From what he’d come to learn about these two Ovaria they were both _incredibly_ stubborn –far too stubborn for their own good, sometimes- and would probably try to track him down if he slipped away before they could make good on their offer of trying to helping him.

The datapad with Optimus’ information about medic coding felt strangely heavy in Ratchet’s subspace as he transformed and walked with heavy pedes to the front door.

 _That code stuff is going to be_ vital _to getting some of this mess sorted out._

At the door Ratchet hesitated, hand on the lock pad, reluctant to find out what awaited him on the other side. It could be either one of the Ovaria, or both of them together, or an empty apartment.

Ratchet honestly didn’t know which potential scenario worried him more. To walk back into the same awkward tension he’d left or find himself abandoned.

 _Don’t be stupid, you broody old fool_.

It took several deep cycles of his vents and a good, armour-settling shake for Ratchet to find the courage needed to open the door and walk inside.

He was greeted by the sight of rearranged furniture and a slightly guilty-looking Wing minus his Greatsword, kneeling with a scrubbing brush in one hand and a bottle of paint remover nearby. The jet was obviously trying to repair some damage to the floor near where the couch had been when Ratchet left. Ratchet cocked his helm and let his optics focus, automatically analysing the impact pattern.

 _Looks like someone hit the floor_ hard _. What the frag were they getting up to?_

For some reason every single processing thread the Incubator possessed caught on the word ‘frag’ and the sight of Wing’s sheepish expression as the hand holding the scrubbing brush slowed to a stop. A series of very unhelpful images popped up regarding the combination of the two that had Ratchet scrambling to build a deletion queue while heat rose to his faceplates.

“Hi.” Wing looked down at the white paint streaked across the floor and back up at Ratchet, giving the Incubator an embarrassed little grin accompanied by tucked-back cheek flares. “Um, Drift and I had a disagreement. I was trying to fix this before you got back.”

 _A_ disagreement _. Is that what they’re calling it these days?_

The jet’s flightpanels and armour twitched and he gave Ratchet an odd look. The Incubator suddenly realised that while he tried to get his thoughts _out_ of the berth his EM Field had completely slipped his control.

 _Oh, frag_.

He brought it back under control with a brief effort; Wing’s optics flickered but he didn’t say anything about Ratchet’s lapse in control. The Ovaria’s mouthplates set stubbornly when Ratchet silently knelt on the other side of the marked-up patch of floor, even going so far as to move the cleaning solution _away_ from Ratchet so he couldn’t help without asking and giving Wing the opportunity to refuse.

“And where’s the other troublemaker?” Ratchet asked, deciding to let Wing get his own way with the floor-scrubbing. “I thought you both had today off.”

The quality of the surprise flashing through Wing’s Field was almost funny.

“He got called in.” The jet said, returning to his cleanup. “Apparently night staff got bored and tried to build a forklift tower. Drift agreed to help deal with the aftermath.”

Admittedly the image captures of the mess as seen through Drift’s optics that Wing sent him over short-range comms were pretty funny, especially since nobody had really gotten hurt. Going by what Ratchet could glean from the pictures, bruises to body and ego seemed to be the worst of it.

“I can’t wait to hear his recording of the supervisor’s rant.” Ratchet said, watching Wing scrub at the last stubborn paint traces on the floor and trying to focus on something other than the healthy gloss of the jet’s plating and the urge to press himself against it. “That organic has lovely way with words when it comes to dealing with total idiots.”

“A being after your own Spark.” Wing observed, yellow optics flashing as he shot Ratchet a teasing grin.

Ratchet rolled his optics, lipplates quirking upwards. Then Wing’s Field brushed against the medic, more cautious than amused and the illusion of normalcy vanished like illegal highgrade during barracks inspection. The medic stood awkwardly, trying to escape the reminder that Wing _knew_ , he _knew_ that Ratchet was broken and would treat him as such and there was no way to go back to the easy fellowship that could possibly, _maybe_ have developed into something else, something _more_ , even if it only did so in Ratchet’s dreams.

 _They were only pipedreams, anyway. Deal with it_.

“Ratchet, wait. Please?” Wing’s flightpanels unfurled and twitched restlessly, sliding audibly against his backplates. “I’m sorry.”

His Field held a wealth of apology and gentle pleading all wrapped up in that Ovaria resonance Ratchet was helpless to resist; the same one that had inclined him to obedience when Wing had started hand-feeding him two nights ago. The jet probably had no idea he was even doing it, being alone for so long had him unused to the level of EMF control needed around his own kind.

“I just don’t know what to say anymore.” Wing admitted, optics seeking and finding Ratchet’s.

Caught by the Ovaria’s Field and further trapped by those pleading optics, Ratchet sighed and sagged against the couch. He rubbed a hand over his faceplates and gave the kneeling jet a wry half-smile.

“Honestly? Me neither.” It was easier to say than Ratchet thought it would be and he felt a little lighter for admitting it. “So at least we’re on the same page, then.”

The small attempt at humour made Wing’s flightpanels relax a little and he returned Ratchet’s smile tentatively, reaching into his subspace. He removed a container that looked suspiciously like the generic leak-proof medical type commonly used for holding thick pastes. Ratchet couldn’t help giving it a suspicious look.

_What now?_

“Um, this is something one of the medics in Crystal City helped develop for use on Syngnathi injuries.” Wing explained, his Field suddenly becoming guarded. “There are several other Knights besides myself who use bladed energy weapons and no matter _how_ good you are… Well, training accidents still happen.”

Ratchet thought he could see where this was going. His armour started to press close to his protoform over vulnerable areas and flare out across his shoulders as Wing continued to explain.

“Redline in particular got tired of what he called ‘inferior substitutes for proper medicine’ when it came to dealing with me and actively looked for ways to improve what was on hand.” There was fond amusement and more than a little homesickness in the jet’s Field at whatever memories were associated with this ‘Redline’. “He’s still not completely happy with the results, but they do reduce both fuel requirements and recovery time after injury.”

The implications overwhelmed Ratchet for a moment and he simply stared at Wing until his processor finished chasing itself in circles.

“Cybertronian medicine is perfectly acceptable.” He said slowly, “Unless you’re spending most of the time…”

“I was.” Wing answered Ratchet’s next question before he could ask. “And before you get your gears in a twist I consented to the trial process, too.”

“Ah.”

The medic didn’t know what else to say. His earlier suspicions returned with a vengeance when Wing reset his vocaliser awkwardly and his Field became a thing of pure formality.

“Will you allow me to treat your injuries?” Wing’s tone was correct, his subglyphs well-chosen to convey that his offer of help was more of a command.

 _I don’t_ believe _this. He’s actually serious._

Keeping his EMF close to his own plating, Ratchet met the Ovaria’s optics in a silent contest of wills. After several long seconds he allowed the plating along his upper arms to flare in addition to his spread shoulder armour but Wing didn’t even flinch, settling himself on his heels and broadcasting _resolve/concern_. Neither backed down and Ratchet finally lost his patience with the stubborn jet and his infuriatingly overprotective ways.

“In case you’ve forgotten, Wing; I am a _medic_. I _know_ how to deal with burns. Even self-inflicted ones.” Ratchet snapped, voice and Field ice-cold and his last words said purely to make the Knight flinch.

It worked, but instead of gratified Ratchet just felt hollow and Wing _still_ didn’t yield.

“Knowing _how_ doesn’t necessarily mean that you _will_.” The Knight’s tone was even; his logic was flawless and Ratchet could tell he was quickly losing the fight to get his way in this.

“ _I AM_.” Ratchet said loudly, trying to win with volume even though he knew damned well that the tactic was useless and juvenile.

This time Wing reacted to his posturing, rising gracefully to his pedes with flightpanels spread wide, flaring the armour over his nacelles and shoulders in an intimidation display that more than matched Ratchet’s posing.

“Then show me.” Wing’s voice was dangerously calm, authoritative harmonics filled his Field where it pressed forward into Ratchet. “ _Prove it_.”

He knew defeat when he saw it, but that didn’t mean Ratchet was going to give in gracefully. What certainly didn’t help was Wing leaking those distress harmonics again, reminding Ratchet that the Ovaria was just as out of his depth as he was himself. It was that more than anything else that made Ratchet give in; his coding demanding he do whatever he could for the jet’s wellbeing and merrily overriding any concerns Ratchet had about his own privacy and the shredded remains of his ego.

“ _Fine_.” Ratchet snarled, initiating the transformation sequence to resume his proper form, not bothering to warn the jet to move back.

 

### ~V~V~V~

 

Wing fought to keep his worry and nervous tension from his Field while he stared Ratchet down, silently begging the mech to let him help, let him be useful, let him do something, _anything_ to help. It was harder than he thought it would be, but victory came eventually, accompanied by a flash of bitter resignation in Ratchet’s EMF and Wing’s anxiety evaporated like rain on his turbines. He was about to thank the medic for letting him help when Ratchet did something completely unexpected.

He transformed.

The first reflexive step backwards Wing wanted to take was squashed in favour of showing that he wasn’t intimidated. Then he was forced to give Ratchet room as the Incubator simply _expanded_ , subspaced mass returning to allow his frame to take on the proper dimensions of his Syngnathi form.

 _Primus, I forgot how_ big _they are._

The Knight was forced to take several steps backwards, feeling a little like that deer caught in Drift’s headlights as Ratchet refused to drop his gaze, staring him down throughout his transformation. At this close range Ratchet’s Field was almost a physical caress against Wing’s armour, a complex tangle of emotions the Ovaria didn’t have a hope of deciphering. Even though he felt a little silly bending his neck backwards to maintain optic contact as Ratchet towered over him Wing didn’t dare to look away. He could see, vaguely, how Ratchet’s torso had deepened and his shoulders spread to compensate as the rest of his frame increased in proportion to his gain in height, but the jet’s main focus was those blazing optics with the slitted apertures and the sharp sensory horns that now graced Ratchet’s  helm in an elegant echo of his elongated chevron.

Said chevron almost scraped against the ceiling despite how Ratchet stooped as he cocked his helm and raised an optical ridge at Wing, who suddenly realised that he was staring. Staring up at Ratchet with a mouth gone very dry and a Spark that was hammering against the confines of its chamber. Whatever he was feeling it was strong enough to alarm Drift, who sent him worry/question and pinged his comms.

[You ok?]

Subglyphs of worry filled the short message.

[Fine. Fine, I think.]

Wing knew he sounded dazed but he was still reeling from the sight of Ratchet’s true form and the feel of that _incredible_ Field against his.

[What’s happened?]

His mate sounded even more worried now. Wing could almost see the younger Ovaria shifting his weight from pede to pede.

[I’m not sure if Ratchet is mocking me or calling my bluff or both.]

Wing databurst Drift the dry facts, without visuals. He didn’t know what his mate was doing and didn’t want to be the cause of him accidentally dropping something heavy on his more squishable co-workers.

He could tell right away that Drift didn’t agree with what he was doing. The rushed response with its lack of emotional modifiers told Wing just how unhappy his mate was.

[I don’t like what you’ve done but I’m not gonna argue with you right now. You’re not treating him like he’s broken, which is good. I’d say he’s probably doing both. Good luck.]

With that Drift ended the call and Wing received a pulse of affection and apology before his mate carefully muted his side of their Bond. Wing followed suit, not wanting to upset Drift with his strangely intense reaction to Ratchet in his Syngnathi form.

 _I don’t_ understand _. What’s making me react this strongly to him?_

Since Drift wasn’t an option, Wing turned to Aequitas instead. For once the Greatsword was frustratingly unhelpful, humming enigmatically and refusing to give any sort of aid. Ratchet reset his vocaliser loudly and Wing started, checked his chronometer and discovering that he’d been standing stock still staring blankly at the medic for several minutes. Amusement filled that thick Field where it pressed against him and Ratchet’s optical ridge quirked higher. The Incubator was hunched over, unable to stand comfortably upright within the apartment. Wing and Drift could manage if they were careful, but Ratchet was much taller than either of them in their Syngnathi forms.

“You implied that you were in Syngnathi form during most of your time in Crystal City,” The added layers of Ratchet’s real voice were even more noticeable now. “I assumed that whatever this ‘Redline’ developed would work most efficiently if I did the same.”

Wing cycled his optics several times, vocaliser clicking as he tried to get his processor to focus on what Ratchet had just said and _not_ the multilayered voice he said it in.

“It’s worked fine on Drift and I so far.” Wing blurted, rather unwisely.

Ratchet pressed the knuckles of one hand to his forehelm, vents cycling in an exasperated noise. The strange motion puzzled Wing for a moment, because usually when anyone said something that stupid the medic would facepalm and not… whatever that had been. Then Ratchet lowered his hand to give the jet a sardonic look and he caught the flash of light reflecting off the Incubator’s claws.

 _That’s right; they can’t retract theirs, can they_.

“I know our base physiology doesn’t change _that_ much when shifting between forms, but as I don’t know anything about the composition of this stuff I would prefer that it be used _as directed_.”

Wing couldn’t help the smile that spread across his faceplates when Ratchet made air quotes around the words ‘as directed’. The Incubator’s claws made his fingers look absurdly long, exaggerating the motion more than he probably realised.

“Alright then.” Wing reset his vocaliser and tried to settle himself. “Um, take a seat?”

Ratchet shuffled around the couch, sitting down and removing his thigh armour with efficient, businesslike motions while Wing stared, feeling that he’d somehow lost control of the entire situation even though he was getting exactly what he wanted.

It was harder than he’d thought it would be to move around the couch and take up position beside the Incubator’s outstretched leg. Wounds both old and new showed clearly against his fatigue-dulled protoform and Wing examined the marks while Ratchet watched him warily. The row of neat round burn marks was obviously fresh; they still had that _look_ to them and Wing’s tanks churned when he thought about Ratchet sitting alone in the washracks, burning them into his own protoform in an attempt to anesthetise a worse pain inside.

The burns _did_ look clean and at least perfunctorily cared-for, which was a relief. Wing was uncapping Redline’s cream when a large band of dark patterning against Ratchet’s protoform suddenly made sense to him.

“Is that… did you?” He couldn’t make himself say the glyphs, gesturing at the mark and miming something slamming down with his hand.

“Almost lose my leg?” Ratchet’s vocaliser and Field were cautious.

Wing nodded.

“Yes.” Ratchet confirmed, and then went on to explain. “Got caught in a ‘Con boobytrap. I was lucky my arms were free otherwise I _would_ have lost the whole fragging thing. Integrating a Cybertronian replacement wouldn’t be fun on war rations.” Ratchet’s Field held relief and a hint of something else as he thought about the past.

“That _would_ have been less than ideal.” Wing observed dryly, beginning to apply the salve to the first of Ratchet’s burns with careful fingers.

Ratchet let him work in silence, Field twitching in time with his thoughts but not trying to mesh at all. There was something familiar to the Incubator’s Field, something Wing felt he should recognise. It was subtle, like the faint trace of a familiar flavour you had to really concentrate to recognise. This odd emotion-texture had been a part of Ratchet’s electromagnetic presence the entire time Wing had known the Incubator so Wing had no idea why it was suddenly bugging him now. He put it down to his EMF sensors overreacting after the tussle with Drift and how his coding would naturally make him preoccupied with soothing an Incubator in distress.

_That’s probably what finally made Drift’s adult coding launch._

Then it hit him.

Wing _had_ felt this before; many times, in fact.

He’d felt it from Incubators he had flirted with, sometimes courted and most often spent one of his heats with. Those times it had been deliberate and much, much stronger than what he felt from Ratchet. This was a constant note of subtle tension running through every single unconscious twitch of his unmasked EMF - and many of the conscious ones, too.

A quick rummage through Wing’s memory banks confirmed that this happened during reactions to himself but not his mate. It fit with the idea that was growing from suspicion to certainty the more he thought about it. He was physically mature whereas Drift was not. To broadcast this to the younger Ovaria would be futile and Ratchet’s coding recognised that just as well as the Incubator’s higher thought processes and conscious mind would.

 _Except this isn’t deliberate, it’s_ accidental _. It disappears every time he consciously controls his Field_.

Carefully, oh so carefully Wing sought that feeling within Ratchet’s Field again. He didn’t want the Incubator to realise what he was doing and cursed his rusty Field control as he almost fumbled when he found it. It was still there, stronger now that Ratchet was busy thinking instead of constantly policing his reactions to Wing tending the medic’s self-inflicted wounds. Concentrating hard, Wing allowed the faintest trace of corresponding interest to infuse his Field and nearly bit his own glossa at the strength of Ratchet’s subconscious response.

 _Oh Primus slag me in the smelter, he’s_ broody. _On top of everything else that’s going on he’s_ broody _as well._

Pity warred with excitement within Wing at the discovery. He took what Ratchet had shared about himself and ran some hasty calculations, nearly gasping aloud at the result. If his numbers were right then Ratchet hadn’t been able to court an Ovaria since moving to Cybertron, millions of years _before_ the start of the war. In comparison, the last heat Wing had spent with an Incubator had been while fleeing Cybertron with the Circle of Light, before saboteurs had attempted to kill them both and only succeeded in murdering Blackbird.

Ratchet had been without the company of his own kind for many, many times longer than Wing had.

Awe filled Wing when he finally _understood_ just how much strain Ratchet must be under.

He fought the urge to press his forehelm to the floor at the medic’s pedes in a gesture of reverence that would have been horribly misunderstood. The strength of will Ratchet demonstrated by continuing to function in the face of millions upon millions of years of accumulating pressure from his core coding was absolutely phenomenal. It would have driven lesser mechs to suicide long before this. Wing couldn’t understand _how_ the ambulance was still functioning in the face of that pressure, let alone with the added burdens of war and his duties as CMO.

It was absolutely beyond belief.

The jet was forced to reset his vocaliser to keep from making an embarrassing sound while his processor spun is dizzy little circles, trying desperately to grasp how it was possible.

 _He is absolutely_ amazing _._

It was beyond his comprehension how Ratchet managed it. Wing had _never_ encountered anyone with the strength of will to match the medic before and with a sinking feeling knew he likely never would again. Enduring aloneness their kind wasn’t meant to for that long and succeeding despite it was something that the Ovaria couldn’t imagine doing. He’d done it himself, but he’d had the support of the Circle. Ratchet had been completely alone, surrounded by Cybertronians who’d kill him if they discovered his true nature.

What this implied about Ratchet’s strength and spirit awed Wing. It was becoming ever more obvious to him why Drift had retained such a strong impression of the mech after all this time. In fact, Drift was the only other mech he’d met who could match Ratchet for sheer willpower and the ability to survive. Next to them Wing felt horribly naïve. He had run from the war while they’d both charged headfirst into it to defend what they believed in. He’d gone to live in the kind of safety no Syngnath had ever known before while they faced discovery and death and still fought to save the lives of Cybertronians who’d turn on them in a second and slaughter them for being ‘monsters’.

_Primus doesn’t make many Sparks like theirs._

Pushing those unhelpful revelations aside, Wing addressed the problem he might be able to do something about. Possibly, maybe, if Primus smiled upon Wing and impossible dreams became real.

“It’s not just the damaged coding, is it?” His voice was soft, startling himself as much as Ratchet with the words. “It’s something else, too.”

Ratchet went so still even his vents seemed to stop but Wing could feel the tiniest tremors through his fingertips where they rested on the bare protoform of Ratchet’s thigh.

“I’ve seen it before, in other Incubators.” He sought Ratchet’s optics, unwilling to speak the words aloud but needing confirmation. The Incubator’s vents cycled back on in a rush and he nodded once, a brief flush of shame filling his Field.

“Yes.” The admission was low and rough. “Does Drift know?”

Wing shook his head, refusing to break optic contact.

“Please don’t tell him.” Ratchet’s glyphs and tone stopped just short of open pleading but it was there all the same. “And I don’t… it’s not something I want to talk about.”

“I understand.” Wing placed a hand on Ratchet’s reinforced shin armour and used the relatively neutral contact to reinforce his EM projections of calm and reassurance. “If he asks I will tell him that it’s something specific to Incubator coding and that you have it under control.”

He couldn’t help the questioning note that crept into the last few words. There were so many variables to cover and no leeway for error. They had to be absolutely sure of what kinds of damage they were dealing with if they were to have any hope of actually helping Ratchet. The medic relaxed a little, the reaction reassuring Wing almost as much as the surety that filled Ratchet’s Field where it brushed against his own in thanks.

“I do, and thank you. It was one thing I _knew_ I’d have to be able to handle if I was going to do my job properly.”

There were unexpected layers of meaning to those glyphs but Wing had no desire to ask about them. He’d learned enough for one day. If Ratchet wanted him to know right now then he’d tell him, otherwise the Ovaria was perfectly happy to tell his sense of curiosity to go play in a mineshaft. A deep one. He had more important things to do right now, like applying the salve to Ratchet’s burns.

Nodding in answer to Ratchet’s words, Wing refocused on his self-appointed task. Using the tapered fingertips of his Cybertronian form he scooped up more of the cool stuff, smoothing it over the last of the untreated burns, starting at the outside and working inwards carefully. Ratchet sighed and relaxed imperceptibly as the numbing agent in Redline’s burn cream took effect, easing the discomfort of tight, melted protoform and slagged neural circuitry. It was a reaction that could only happen if the Incubator had left his sensornet active instead of initiating a localised shutdown like any other injured mech would.

_You’re already hurting enough, you stubborn aft._

“There, all done.” Wing said briskly.

Distracted as he was the jet acted automatically, putting the lid back on the salve at the same time as he lowered his helm to press a quick, chaste kiss to Ratchet’s protoform alongside the row of freshly-dressed burns. The Incubator’s vents hissed on a long intake and Wing froze, shock and embarrassment burning through his lines, not sure what to expect by way of a reaction from Ratchet. His plating clamped down and locked, shielding his delicate substructure from the Incubator’s potentially lethal claws. Slowly, carefully Wing raised his helm, looking up.

Ratchet was frozen, staring down at him with wide optics and plating also held close to his frame. His Field was tense, full of a stunned confusion that clearly demanded that Wing explain what the frag he’d just done.

“I’m sorry.” Wing’s vocaliser produced an embarrassed little squeak and he reset it quickly. “Um, Cue and Vair used to do that when we got dents or scrapes from playing too rough. Kiss it better, I mean. And um, I never… never really got out of the habit.”

He trailed off, feeling his faceplates burn with heat that would be painfully visible in infrared. Unable to meet Ratchet’s bright blue gaze any longer Wing ducked his helm, fiddling with the pot of burn cream.

“Just don’t expect me to do the same next time you screw up the fancy flying.” Ratchet growled, his Field filling with awkward acceptance as he reattached his thigh armour.

“Deal.” Wing smiled, hold out the pot of burn cream and trying not to get distracted by the way the light reflected off Ratchet’s sensory horns as the Incubator moved. “You can have this for analysis if you want, we have a lot.” The jet offered. “Nobody trusted us to stay out of trouble, for some reason.”

Ratchet’s helm tilted to the side as he considered the container balanced on Wing’s palm before picking it up carefully. Clawtips skimmed delicately across his sword-callused palm and Wing struggled to keep his Field under control as Spark and coding surged in response to the gentle contact.

 _That_ wasn’t _on purpose, this_ isn’t _a courting gift. Calm. Down_.

“I can see where they would have gotten that impression.” Ratchet’s subglyphs were full of amused teasing, “With all the stories you two have. Primus, you’re the biggest pair of trouble magnets I know of outside the Wreckers.”

Relieved and bolstered by his success, Wing settled himself comfortably on the floor and coaxed Ratchet into telling him some stories of the specialist Autobot team known as the Wreckers. It felt unbelievably good to bask in the Incubator’s EMF and watch the tension slowly leave Ratchet’s frame as he got caught up in the tale he was spinning.

 _He’s_ _amazing_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No Ratchet didn't transform back.  
> Yes that broody resonance is why Wing wanted to lick Ratchet all over in Ch4 and jumped Drift so quickly after dinner.  
> See the fic Growing Pains from the main IDW Syngnathi timeline for how much 'fun' integrating Cybertronian parts into a Syngnathi frame can be.
> 
> ADDED FEB 10TH 2018: Chaoswolf12 did some amazing incubator!Ratchet fanart for this chapter, [[Here]](https://chaoswolf12.tumblr.com/post/170415537348/syngnathi-ratchet-in-all-his-glory-scene-from) IT IS FUCKING AMAZING OMG


	18. Breathing Space

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get a little awkward between Drift and Ratchet.  
> Thankfully, candy can solve a lot of their problems right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song for Drift and Wing interacting with Ratchet: [Crushcrushcrush by Paramore.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ei8hPkyJ0bU)  
> Song for Drift and Wing atm: [True Love by P!nk.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zsmUOdmm02A)

# Eighteen

 

Drift spent most of his shift worrying about what was happening back at the apartment. What his bonded was doing could go very, very wrong and end up with Ratchet pushing them both away before they could even _try_ to help the Incubator. He kept his end of the bond muted, determined not to intervene. Determined not to let his disapproval of Wing’s pushy nature leak through and set them up for another fight when he got home.

Startled by his own thoughts, Drift froze and almost dropped the crate he was holding.

_Home. That’s weird. Why does Ratchet’s place feel more like home than New Crystal City or_ Chushingura _does?_

He turned the minor revelation over in his processors as he worked; deliberately using it to keep from worrying about what Wing was getting up to. Apparently approving of this, Ianus hummed enigmatically from its place along his spinal struts. The Greatsword’s reaction was unexpected and strangely comforting. It remained active in Drift’s awareness as he lifted, shoved and wrestled with the interlocked forklifts with his processor split between the job at hand and trying to figure out why Ratchet’s apartment felt so homelike.

By the time they finally had the mess cleared up all Drift had worked out was that somehow, between them, the two older Syngnathi had created an atmosphere and comfortable routine that spoke to him in a way he’d never experienced before, not even during his brief time with Shockwave. The Ovaria could only assume it was something to do with deeper levels of his coding instinctively recognising and responding to things he wouldn’t consciously recognise as being important to Syngnathi.

Things he should have grown up with, but hadn’t.

Instead of being angry at the past, all Drift could dredge up in response to it now was a sense of mild annoyance at how others would react if he revealed his lack of knowledge.

_If I mention this to Wing he’ll just give me that slagging_ look _and go all silly again_.

With these thoughts filling his mind when he returned to the apartment, Drift was almost unsurprised to be greeted by the sound of transformation and the supremely odd sight of his mate sitting happily at Ratchet’s pedes like an obedient sparkling.

There wasn’t time to say much of anything to his mate. Ratchet had apparently been telling a story of some kind and both of them had lost track of the time, making Wing late for work. They barely even had time for a quick embrace and a murmured apology before Wing was out the door in a flash of white, leaving Drift and Ratchet deliberately avoiding looking at each other. Without the older Ovaria’s easy sociability filling the gaps between Ratchet and Drift the room slowly filled with a thick, awkward silence.

It got to Drift first.

Plating twitching, he muttered something about preparing fuel and fled for the kitchen, putting together two mugs of something rather high in energy with additives that made it feel almost fizzy on the glossa. It was a silly blend he hadn’t made since leaving New Crystal City and Drift had no idea why he’d just made it now, regretting the choice as soon as he took a sip. He couldn’t bring himself throw out perfectly good fuel just because he’d changed his mind so he went in search of Ratchet instead, taking the mug he’d prepared for the Incubator along with him.

He’d expected to find the medic wasn’t spread over most of the couch with a datapad or something in his hands, but the couch was empty with no sigh of where Ratchet had gone. After a brief search Drift found the medic standing in the hallway, staring into his berthroom like he’d never seen it before. Ratchet didn’t acknowledge the speedster as he approached, Field roiling and pulling away to the lightest possible social contact as Drift wordlessly held Ratchet’s mug out to him.

“Who cleaned up?” The Incubator asked. His voice was soft and Drift caught a definite note of shame in his Field as he accepted the mug.

“We both did.” Drift admitted while Ratchet sipped at his fuel, giving his mug a vaguely confused look before raising it to his mouth again. The expression on Ratchet’s face sent a quick surge of fondness through Drift that he kept from his Field with an effort. “Wing _tried_ to get everything back how it should be but neither of us are very good at building a decent nest.”

“You’re capable of learning, but Ovaria aren’t usually driven to build one, not with your coding.” Ratchet said, visibly steeling himself before marching forward and swiftly putting his nest to rights while Drift leaned against the doorframe to watch, leaving plenty of open space so it was clear that he wasn’t trying to box Ratchet in. The medic continued speaking as he worked, raising his voice a little so Drift could hear him without difficulty. “So long as you’re warm enough you can manage those horrible open-sided slabs most people use for berths, right?”

Surprise shot though Drift and he couldn’t help the way it coloured his voice, even though he _knew_ that Ratchet knew he didn’t know as much about their kind as either of the older Syngnath did.

“Yeah, none at all if I can stay warm.” Drift’s helm canted to the side, trying to ignore the strong, sure way Ratchet moved and how the light gleamed from lines of shiny new enamel where the filler had been fully integrated by Ratchet’s chromatonanites. “Uh, is that normal?” He couldn’t keep the worry from his subglyphs and was relieved when Ratchet shot him a crooked grin, reassuring instead of condescending.

“You’re fine, kid. It’s rare for an Ovaria to get enough nest-coding to have trouble recharging when unenclosed.” Ratchet’s vocaliser had changed, returning his voice to the full Syngnathi range that sent shivers down Drift’s spinal struts despite the obvious amusement in the Incubator’s sybglyphs. “It took me _centuries_ to learn how to sleep on a berth without being half-dead on my pedes. Most of the time I _still_ feel like I’m going to fall out or get jumped on.”

That last reason was one Drift understood, although for him it was because of life experiences and lessons learned the hard way and not the kind of hardcoded instinct he vaguely understood to be driving the medic.

“I’ve never been able to recharge with the door open or if someone can get behind me.” Drift admitted, looking down at his pedes. “A pile of blankets or putting my backplates against something helped. Never felt like I was going to fall out of the berth, though I always shoved something under there if it was elevated.”

Ratchet’s plating flattened in horror that carried clear on his Field as he was reminded of the existence of free-standing berths.

“I did the same, or recharged in my office.” The Incubator sighed and rubbed his faceplates with one hand, looking tired and far older than Drift knew him to be. “Primus, I’m _not_ looking forward to dealing with those torture devices they call berths on a regular basis again.”

Something in Drift was pushing at him, demanding he do something indefinable that was very definitely centred on Ratchet. It was very, very hard not to give in and let the coding guide him into doing what it wanted. He didn’t know precisely what it was or if it would even help. Determined not to let this new adult coding push him around, Drift reached for Ianus and found the Greatsword willing to help for once, steadying him in the face of unfamiliar urges.

_I_ wish _Wing could explain this slag better._

“You’re CMO, right?” Drift asked, trying to divert the conversation. “You could requisition something to make it more comfortable. Frag, you could probably get away with tacking a barrier around the edge of your berth without getting in the kind of slag for defacing military property that the lower ranks would.” The dumbfounded look on Ratchet’s face said he’d clearly never considered either option. Drift shook his helm and projected mock exasperation. “Primus, Ratchet! You need a babysitter or something.”

“Encouraging me to bend or break the rules and regs _hardly_ makes you the kind of mech that would make an effective babysitter.” The medic said. “In fact, I think most of the army would have a fit at the thought of you babysitting _any_ of the command staff.”

It still hurt to bring up their opposing factions but it was definitely easier for both of them than dealing with other issues right now.

“If you can ever find a way to bring that up I need image captures of the reactions.” Drift smirked, “Especially Jazz. He’s less predictable so it’s bound to be funnier.”

A wicked smile spread slowly across Ratchet’s faceplates and the speedster was suddenly _convinced_ the Incubator was about to suggest the Knights accompany him back to Autobot HQ when a message from Wing popped up on his HUD. From the way Ratchet’s EMF twitched and he cycled his optics it was easy to see that he’d gotten one too.

_Beloved._  
I’m sorry; I don’t know how to handle the situation with Ratchet. It has thrown me badly; my coding is all over the place and I don’t know how _to react. Right now that makes me a liability we simply can’t afford. I need time and space to process this, to meditate and centre myself so I don’t make everything worse. An intercity delivery came up and I put myself forward for it. I know I should have spoken with you first but I feared making the situation worse. I will be away overnight, returning midday tomorrow if weather and traffic permit._  
Please forgive me.

Cautiously, Drift dropped the block he had been maintaining on his end of the bond, reaching out for his mate. His optics slid offline as Wing responded with equal caution, projecting a sense of apology and shame. All he could do was send love, gratitude and understanding in return. This was an impossible situation for all of them and Wing was definitely the least equipped to deal with it. And yet _somehow_ he was still managing to cope with the unfamiliar stressors _and_ give what support he could to his mate as well as aiding the suffering Incubator.

_Times like this I feel kinda lucky that Aequitas bound us together._

He sent his pride and love for his mate before bringing his optics back online and returning to the external world. Ratchet was looking at him with a strange expression on his faceplates.

“What?” Drift demanded, crossing his arms defensively.

Ratchet made an amused sound and shook his helm but there was a trace of something that could have been envy in his Field before he controlled himself and spoke.

“You two are _disgustingly_ sweet sometimes.” The Incubator observed dryly, “I take it you got a message from Wing, too?”

“How did you know?”

“Unless they’re really, _really_ good most Sparkbonded get this dopey expression when they’re being mushy at each other over their Bond.” Ratchet raised an optical ridge, projecting what felt like slightly forced amusement. “You two do it in _spades_.”

Drift groaned and scrubbed at his faceplates with both hands. “So you can tell when we’re using the Bond to talk?” He wasn’t entirely sure if he wanted to know the answer.

That bright, mischievous look was back in Ratchet’s optics and Drift’s Spark lurched strangely.

“You two can be more obvious than most.” Was the oblique reply. “It’s the same principle to speaking on internal comms; it takes time, practice and incentive to learn how to control the micro-expressions associated with the form of communication. You’ll get there eventually. If it’s any consolation, Wing is _definitely_ worse at it than you.”

Drift pulled a face and was about to change the subject when Ratchet beat him to it, pulling an unfamiliar datapad from subspace.

“Since Wing won’t be kicking our afts at one of his games I should use the time to read this.” The medic said, holding up an unfamiliar datapad. “It’s everything Ops and Medical could find on Medic coding. Using this I can start untangling that part of the problem, at least. I _know_ there are some errors in mine but I haven’t had a clean copy to compare it to.”

“And now you do.” Drift forced himself to keep his tone neutral. This was good. This was a _very_ good thing for Ratchet. “How about I make us some of those magnesium sulphate puffs while you’re studying?”

His easy acceptance seemed to ease some indefinable tension in Ratchet. The medic’s expression softened and definite pleasure filled his Field  at the mention of one of their mutual favourite snacks –one that Wing absolutely detested and Drift only made on nights the jet was away.

“That sounds _perfect_.”

Drift immediately set himself up in the small kitchen area while Ratchet installed himself on the couch in a comfortable half-sprawl with the datapad in hand and his injured leg elevated, stretched along the seat in a way that looked completely casual.

_Bet he’s used to hiding when he’s hurting and not just because of… that._

By the time Drift had the puffs made and the kitchen tidied Ratchet was frowning at the datapad and muttering to himself, Field roiling with frustration.

“Here.” Drift offered a bowl of cooling metallic globs to the Incubator, who grabbed one of the hottest and shoved the whole thing in his mouth while Drift sputtered a protest.

“I know the temperature tolerances of our frames better than you do, kid.” Ratchet growled as Drift tried to pull to bowl out of reach. “And these are better when they’re still glowing hot.”

Settling down on the floor with the bowl within easy reach of both of them, Drift gave Ratchet an extremely dubious look as the medic chose another of the puffs still glowing the brightest to infrared vision.

“If you say so.” Drift selected one for himself that was cool, solid and crunchy. “You’re the one who’ll be scraping copper off your denta later on.” He popped his chosen puff into his mouth, enjoying the way the soft crystal structure disintegrated easily on his glossa, the thin copper veining lingering a little longer before melting.

“I can live with that.” A hum of satisfaction underlay Ratchet’s words and he set the datapad aside to focus on the rare treat. “These are _good_.”

“Trade you the recipe for some nest-building lessons?” Drift grinned up at Ratchet as the Incubator went still and something thoughtful crossed his faceplates. “I can give you the list of wartime substitute ingredients, too.”

That was apparently the clincher.

“Deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~Wing is also trying to get a handle on himself to avoid or postpone a straight-up dominance fight with Drift.  
> ~Drift and Ratchet both like sulphur. Wing can't stand it.  
> ~ADDED 2nd MARCH: Sparkles did an amazing illustration for this chapter: [[Tumblr Link](http://turbopuppy.tumblr.com/post/140292915011/adhesivesandscrap-cuz-the-last-chapter-of-love)]  
> [[Turbopup/Rosallie's DA](http://rosalliebroken.deviantart.com/)]  
>   
>  
> 
> I've locked my fics because several months ago someone anonymously went around tumblr trying to get at least two of my Dratchet fics re-written, which has had me considering whether or not to continue with writing fanfic. More recent incidences of artist friends having their character designs copied without credit and an unrelated accident involving one of my AU-specific headcanons for ASCW lead me to make the decision to lock my fics while I determine whether or not I'll ditch writing fanfic altogether or just throttle back and devote more time to original works.  
> There is enough nonsense going on IRL right now without fandom stuff on top of it.  
> At the moment I'm leaning towards putting the majority of my time into the original stories and slowly finishing off unfinished fic, without starting anything that would be longer than 8k words. I haven't made any firm decisions just yet, but rest assured that I won't do the bolt without telling you how the stories end.


	19. And Yet, Somehow, Life Goes On.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life continues in the wake of the storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This follows directly on from the end of the last chapter.  
> Title is a Calvin and Hobbes quote

They nibbled in silence, working their way slowly through the batch of snack food. Ratchet didn’t pick up the datapad again and Drift toyed with the idea of suggesting a movie, as there were several he really wanted to hear Ratchet decimate. He onlined his vocaliser to ask which one Ratchet wanted to watch but the blasted thing betrayed him, blurting out something completely different to what he actually wanted to say.

“Ratchet, I just want to say, well I know it sounds stupid but I _do_ know where you’re coming from.” Drift said, looking at Ratchet’s collar assembly since he couldn’t bring himself to meet the Incubator’s optics. “I understand what it’s like to hurt yourself when you feel like you’ve fragged up, I really…do.”

It was an admission he’d never voiced to anyone.

Wing knew, but only because he’d seen the memories when Aequitas bonded them.

“So, I don’t know what you think about our motivations for helping you but for me I _don’t_ like to see you hurting. I don’t like to see _anyone_ hurting that way.” Drift kept speaking and his optics caught movement as Ratchet’s mouth dropped open and then closed again with a snap, his Field closing off even though he didn’t withdraw from social contact.

“Wing, well, Wing fusses over _everyone_ ; it’s just how he is. He can’t help it sometimes.” Drift snorted, well aware of his mate’s foibles. “We want to stay with you until you’ve healed. By that I mean until you don’t _need_ it anymore, until you have other ways to cope, ones that help you.” He tried to project his sincerity as strongly as he could, making a helpless little movement with his hands. “We’re _not_ going to take it away because I _know_ that doing that doesn’t help, but I- _we_ , we want to help you find less destructive ways to survive and to maybe even fix the damaged coding with whatever Prime found, if we can. If-if you’ll let us.”

There was a sound like a vocaliser being forcibly overridden and Drift’s optics finally slid up to Ratchet’s faceplates. The medic’s expression was unreadable and there was a suspicious liquid shine along the lower edge of his optics; optical lubricants leaking. The Cybertronian version of tears. Drift pretended to ignore the way the Incubator subtly wiped his faceplates, looking away and digging loudly through the bowl of thoroughly cooled snackfood.

“I don’t know what to say.” Ratchet’s voice was low and hoarse when he finally spoke and he couldn’t quite meet Drift’s optics when he looked up again. “But… thanks, kid.”

His Field opened up again, conveying just how much he meant what he said. Drift responded with _gratitude/thanks_ and a shy smile he sincerely hoped didn’t look as silly as it felt. It mustn’t have, because Ratchet didn’t comment on it. Instead, he changed the subject by asking Drift some trivial question about New Crystal City and they finished off the rest of the puffs while Drift talked and Ratchet listened.

By the time the two Syngnath finally said goodnight Drift had shifted closer, leaning against the couch and looking up at Ratchet as he talked. He couldn’t help himself; sometimes it felt like the Incubator’s Field was almost _pulling_ at him, inviting him closer. Responding to that invitation was as natural as racing or transforming or cycling his vents.

Their nest looked very big and empty without Wing in it. Drift burrowed right into the middle, pulling blankets around him that smelled comfortingly like his mate and something else that was hard to place. It was almost like some of his favourite mineral-heavy gels and Drift tried to figure out where the scent could possibly have come from and why it made him feel so good as his systems slowed down for recharge.

A memory of Ratchet’s voice with full Syngnathi resonance replayed just as Drift’s processor initiated his recharge cycle and the Ovaria fell asleep smiling.

### ~V~V~V~

Ratchet spent most of the next day going over the detailed analysis of healthy, functional Medic coding that Optimus had acquired for him. It was slow going because although he _had_ acquired more than the basic coding analysis skills required for a CMO, this area still _wasn’t_ his specialty. He muttered and took notes, scowling at the datapad as he highlighted areas that he thought could be relevant and cross-referenced what he could with the generic information he’d brought with him.

Still, the Medic was out of his depth and he knew it.

_I need a specialist. Or a Syngnath-friendly Mnemosurgeon. Hah, may as well wish for the war to be over and the freedom to wear my true form in public while I’m at it. It’s about as likely to happen._

Drift bullied him into taking short breaks from his studies and a longer one when Wing returned. There was obvious tension between the mated Ovaria but they remained civil with each other despite the slight distance between them. To Ratchet’s experienced optic it looked like they were dragging out the opening posturing of a dominance struggle. He’d seen it before and trusted the Ovaria to sort it out between themselves when they were ready.

_Primus, just don’t let me get dragged into it. Please._

Before crawling into his nest that evening Ratchet steeled himself and carefully detached his thigh armour, reluctantly checking the state of his self-inflicted burns.

_Huh_.

He was pleasantly surprised to discover that they were healing at a rate comparable to similar wounds on a Cybertronian receiving good care and not the slower pace he was used to. The slight difference in physiologies and his extra subspaced mass meant that Ratchet always, _always_ took longer to heal up than he should. It was easily excused by blaming it on chronic fatigue caused by the way he consistently overworked himself.

Spreading Redline’s salve sparingly over the melted pockmarks in his protoform, Ratchet wished he could justify trying to replicate the compound for himself once he returned to the Autobots.

_I_ knew _proper medicine and fuelling would make a difference, but I never thought it would be this pronounced… Never heard of a Cybertronian wanting to put us back together instead of pulling us apart before, either._

Obviously this ‘Redline’ knew what he was doing, but Ratchet still wished he could talk to the mech. He wondered how much they could do if they pooled their knowledge and collaborated openly. It was a nice thought to carry him into recharge, offlining his audials when he heard the first engine revs and smothered moans of what was obviously going to be a very hot make-up frag from the Ovaria down the hall.

_I really_ don’t _want to hear that tonight._

Normally he didn’t mind the noise; it was reassuring, reminding him that life did indeed carry on normally elsewhere. But tonight was different. Tonight it was harder than usual to tell the aches in his chest and abdomen to leave him alone.

Ratchet forced his recharge sequence and dropped offline before he could give in to the temptation to do something stupid.

Like get up and ask to join in.

Or offer Ampulla.

_That’s not for you, broody idiot._

It was his last thought before passing out and it remained in his cache, the first thing to greet Ratchet when his internal alarm woke him the next day. It wasn’t the best thought to start the day cycle with, instantly ruining the uplifting effect of a rare recharge without nightmares. It was a much-needed reminder to keep himself in check when he felt two sated Fields mesh lightly with his; a smiling Wing drawing him into conversation as Drift passed him a mug of fuel.

The Knights forced Ratchet the door with plenty of time to make it to work, which allowed him to dwell on the fact that he’d had little –if any- contact with the other staff at the clinic over his week of forced leave.

_Funny. The only other mech who could get forced leave while already ON medical leave is Prowl._

The instructions had been pretty comprehensive and he didn’t exactly have a social life, only passing through as he was. It was also a given that he would outlive the smaller organics and most of the techno-organics, so right from the outset Ratchet had decided to keep everything businesslike at the clinic and extremely casual outside of that.

Logically he knew there _shouldn’t_ be a problem, and yet…

Irrationally, as he got closer to his destination Ratchet started to worry more about the reception he would receive when he got there. Now that he was watching for it, it was easier to see where the process started. He could almost _feel_ the way the initial fleeting concern was hooked by lines of errant code, rescued from deletion to cycle past again and again, tagged with reminders of the pandemonium that had reined the last time he was in the building.

For a moment Ratchet thought he smelled hot plasma and burning flesh. He shook the sense-memory off with an effort as he left the main flow of traffic, filling his vents with the fug of rush hour traffic instead.

If he had been tired, if his burns had still ached and his frame and processors hadn’t had the benefit of a solid week of Drift’s cooking to restore themselves he didn’t think he would have been able to spot the glitch.

It was _that_ subtle, that entrenched in his thought processes now to dwell on things he could have done differently to save this patient or that one. Normally this was a helpful process, an analytical program every medic had that was intended to identify errors so that they wouldn’t be repeated. Every mechanism had some variant of this program; it was part of what made them sentient, part of how they learned.

That’s _why I didn’t think to question it before. And now it’s fragged to the Pit and back_. _Brilliant_.

Making a mental note to look at it in more depth later, Ratchet transformed and approached the roughly Cybertronian-sized entrance to the clinic. Bracing himself although he wasn’t sure what he was bracing himself for, Ratchet pushed open the door.

And walked into a surprisingly pleasant and unreservedly warm welcome.

It was something he couldn’t count on receiving upon his return to his post with the Autobots, so he made the most of it and put the memories in a secure archive to look back on later.

Apparently stories of how he’d worked to minimise casualties of all species and pulled both survivors and bodies from the wreckage until he nearly fell on his face had done the rounds and been embroidered several times in the process.

Ratchet’s own memories of the night were either too sharp-edged and visceral for him to look at willingly or else they were so corrupted by exhaustion he honestly couldn’t tell if they matched what people claimed he’d done. It was extremely embarrassing to be so lauded just for doing his job, following the call of Spark and coding to do what he was forged to do. But all the same Ratchet was touched. The smiles and friendly greetings he recieved throughout the course of the day warmed him through to his Spark.

Privately he hoped that the complimentary remarks about his recently-tended enamel never made it to the sharp audials of either Ovaria. He wasn’t sure he could withstand the temptation of regular grooming sessions and really didn’t want to put any more pressure on his slowly weakening self-control.

_You’ve lasted this long, you can make it a bit longer. Just a bit longer._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~Drift could smell Ratchet from when they were all snuggled in the nest.  
> ~Ampulla is what I have chosen to call the Syngnathi form of nuptial gifting, where the Incubator deposits several gelatinous bolus within the Ovaria they are courting. These bolus (Boluses? Bolusi?) contain minerals and metals that Ovaria's frames burn through in a hurry.
> 
> Going to tentatively aim for monthly updates on this while I work on redoing Antiques roadshow and getting Tenebris and In Plain Sight finished off around non-fic projects.
> 
> I want to say a massive thank you and give awkward internet hugs to everyone for their support regarding the bullshit that sprang from tumblr fandom. I'm going to be continuing with fic and stop posting unedited fic pieces and plot spoilers to that site, since that was where the trouble came from. Spending less time on that site would also be a good idea XD


	20. A Hard, Bitter Pill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ratchet has to enlist help to make sense of what has happened with his code.  
> Wing discovers the truth behind some of the damage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah this got longer. Another chapter just up and appeared out of nowhere TuT
> 
> Chapter title is a combination of two English idioms. [[x](https://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/hard_pill_to_swallow)] [[x](https://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/bitter_pill_to_swallow)]

##  Twenty

 

Ratchet relaxed into the welcoming embrace of his nest with a deep sigh, shifting around until he was perfectly comfortable. He’d gotten as far as he could with studying the code information on the datapad and now it was time to move to the next stage. He’d been putting this off by re-reading the data from Optimus over and over so many times that Wing had eventually asked him if he had any idea how he was going to proceed.

A pang of guilt shot through the Incubator as he remembered his reaction to the gentle way Wing had called him on his stalling with that question.

_I shouldn’t have snapped at him like that._

Even now Ratchet was _still_ procrastinating and he knew it.

Putting off what he needed to do even though he knew full well how important it was.

Because there was always a possibility that it wasn’t _just_ malfunctioning coding that was responsible for this. It could be a result of his own Spark’s interaction with his coding through the Spark and Brain Module interconnection.

If that was the case it would mean that Ratchet really _was_ broken, damaged right through to his core. Irredeemably flawed in a way not even extensive mnemosurgery could fix for long. It would mean that as long as Ratchet’s Spark resided in a frame he would relapse over and over and over again.

Being a battlefield medic only made things worse. It sped up the cycle, hurried him through the inevitable pattern of escalation he knew he was already engaged in, until he was all but tearing himself apart in an attempt to ease the distress enough to be able to function.

 _And if this is another surprise_ he _left for me, then…_

Fantasies of watching the Ovaria tear apart the mech who haunted more than his fair share of Ratchet’s nightmares brought a vicious smile to the medic’s faceplates, one that vanished as he forced himself back on-task.

_Wing’s home today. If he catches me putting this off any longer he’ll use the turbopup optics, or offer to lend me that slagging sword of his to use as a concentration aid._

Armour along his clavicular strut shifted, baring a well-kept row of jacks and ports. Ratchet reached up, fingers moving directly to the appropriate neural jack and unspooling it smoothly, connecting to the datapad before cuing up the translation software.

As Ratchet had said time and again, he wasn’t a code specialist. As a result he needed special programs to render his code in a format that would make sense to his processors.

_Could do more if I had better equipment. Or a friendly hacker._

He offlined his optics and waited as the program booted and stared running. It appeared slowly, forming around Ratchet’s avatar in the endless nowhere of simulated space. A digital representation of his own coding came into being in coloured threads of light, slender at first but gradually thickening and solidifying until it was almost as if he was looking at an overly complicated artists’ impression of a Cybertronian’s internal fluid and energy transportation systems combined with the neural landscape of a Metrotitan.

 _Well, it’s colour-coded at least. Where do I even_ start?

Checking and double-checking to make sure that he was working in a strictly read-only situation, Ratchet found his medical coding by the distinctive colour banding they took on under the influence of the translation software. When he had the right place he set about comparing what he found to what was on the datapad, going over it inch by painstaking inch.

There was damage where he expected it, appearing to his view as clumsy welds with thick scar tissue around the site. The location confirmed his suspicions about just what had been edited that night. Ratchet wouldn’t be able to fix it himself; it was just as far beyond his skills as he had known it would be.

 _Need a proper Mnemosurgeon to undo_ that _._

With an internal sigh Ratchet left the damaged spot and moved on, moving outwards and locating several warped code strings that had twisted into new patterns in an attempt to compensate for the initial damage.

These he _would_ be able to fix, more-or-less.

The changes had obvious start and end points so he would be able to tweak them back into place or simply replace entire sections with clean copy from the datapad. The cognition loop he’d caught the other day was one of these. It would need monitoring afterwards to ensure the repairs held, but that was one easy fix Ratchet was glad to be able to put into his tasklist for later.

Where the code became more tangled, where the image of wires bent sharply and wrapped around each other he knew it would be harder. Edits would need to be made carefully, if he could make them at all.

Making mental notes of the work he would need to do, Ratchet moved beyond the main damage and headed for other places he knew –or at least suspected- were damaged.

A snarled mass of multiple colours and varieties of simulated nerves and conduits reared up, blocking his path. Startled, Ratchet automatically commanded the translation software to zoom out so he could get a better view.

When he did he nearly dropped right out of the program in shock.

 _This… No. This_ can’t _be possible._

Ratchet shut the translation program down and checked it for errors, finding none. His second check came back clean, as well as a quick scan for glitches in his own cognitive processes. Restarting the program and focusing on the same area of code showed exactly the same snarled mass as before. No matter what angle he viewed it from, all he could tell was _somehow_ two completely unrelated parts of his core coding had become woven together in ways they definitely shouldn’t be.

Ratchet knew he could still be wrong.

He was only one mech, one set of optics.

If he was anywhere else and the patient was anyone else he could get another medic to look the issue over, call in a code specialist to confirm what he was seeing.

 _I’m in this mess because I_ can’t _do that. But_ _I need a second opinion._

Shutting the program down, Ratchet disconnected from the datapad and scrubbed at his faceplates.  Out here he had only Drift and Wing and both of them were infinitely less qualified than he would like when dealing with this situation.

I don’t want to do this

The thought of having another being in his head again terrified him. He remembered an alien consciousness picking through his thoughts and code like they were some sort of grotesque playground and wanted to purge his tanks.

_I don’t have a choice._

Taking his courage in both hands, Ratchet got up and went in search of Wing.

He found the Ovaria sitting on the floor in the lounge, meditating with the chunk of metal called Aequitas balanced across his knees. Glaring at the gem in the sword’s hilt, Ratchet brought his vocaliser online with a polite noise, getting Wing’s immediate and total attention.

“Wing, can I ask a favour?”

Wing shifted so he was facing Ratchet, smiling up at him in a way that made the Incubator’s spark pulse painfully. He couldn’t meet the jet’s optics, focusing somewhere in the area of a shoulder turbine instead.

“What do you need?” The answer was immediate and warm, generous in a way that made Ratchet feel vaguely guilty.

Waving the datapad as a partial explanation, Ratchet’s optics finally slid away from Wing and tracked around the room, trying to find something less painful to look at.

“I found something odd and I need another set of optics on the problem.” It was much easier to speak when he wasn’t looking at Wing. “I’m not sure if what I’m seeing here is a result of coding damage or a miscommunication between my processors and the translation software.”

“I can do that.” Wing stood in one smooth movement, sliding Aequitas into place along his spinal struts with easy grace. “Where would you like to do it?”

Ratchet almost bit his glossa at the accidental innuendo, although Wing seemed completely oblivious.

“Couch will be fine.” He growled, realising too late that it would put him in easy range of Wing’s Field. And the Ovaria knew that he was broody. “You’ll need to hook up to the ‘pad too.”

_He won’t try any funny business. I think._

Keeping his Field as controlled as he could, Ratchet dropped unceremoniously onto one end of the couch, fiddling with the datapad so he didn’t have to look at Wing.

“Wouldn’t a direct connection be easier?” Wing asked with a frown, gesturing towards the back of his helm as he seated himself comfortably on the opposite end of the couch.

An uncontrollable shudder tore through Ratchet’s frame as he remembered the dank stench of the Dead End and Bludgeon’s hideous singsong voice.

“Not in this case.” He managed to rasp, keeping his Field locked down tight to his plating. Wing gave him a sympathetic and vaguely guilty look.

“Forgive me; I keep forgetting that you haven’t lived with the freedoms that I have enjoyed.” The Ovaria said contritely, flightpanels drooping as he gently pressed a sense of shame and apology against Ratchet’s closely-held Field. “I should have thought before speaking.”

Ratchet cycled his vents, relief sweeping through him even as he responded to Wing’s apology with a half-smile. It was ok, Wing didn’t know.

Although that was probably about to change, if what Ratchet suspected about some of the damage was anywhere close to correct.

_This… could get messy._

They connected to the datapad in silence, Wing allowing Ratchet to take the lead in starting up the translation software and leading him to where the problems began. He didn’t know what the Ovaria was seeing as he examined the snarled coding; the software translated a Cybertronian’s programming code into whatever made the most sense to the processors of the mech using it. For all Ratchet knew, Wing was seeing air currents or some pattern arcane symbols related to the code of behaviour he lived by as a Knight of Light.

“It looks as if another part of your deeper coding got tangled in with some parts of your medical coding here.” Wing’s voice was curiously flat, the datapad relaying their glyphs without any inflection. “I can’t tell if it’s in response to damage, external influence or if it’s happened due to subconscious edits in a high-stress situation. It has the look of all three.”

Then Wing began moving back, tracing out the damage and seeing where it led. Ratchet was too busy digesting what the jet had said and comparing it with his own observations to pay attention to what Wing was doing. He was finding too much truth in Wing’s observations for his own comfort. Now that he was looking, Ratchet could see hints of all three possible causes in the way the ‘wires’ and ‘fluid lines’ of his code wrapped around each other.

 _This really_ is _a giant slagging mess_.

“You’re right.” Ratchet had forgotten what Wing was doing; caught up in trying to identify _which_ sections of code had gotten tangled together. “From what I can see here it looks like conscious thought processes started _this_ part of the tangle _here_ , and this part over _here_ got reinforced and solidified by the subconscious edits later on.”

 “Ratchet.” Even with the way the translation software flattened their glyphs, Wing still sounded alarmed and worried.

Ratchet looked up from the snarled code he was examining but Wing’s program avatar wasn’t anywhere to be seen. Cold dread crept down Ratchet’s spinal column when he pinged his shirt-term cache to figure out where the Ovaria might have gone.

_Oh, slag._

Wing was hovering over the scarred sections of code that Bludgeon had modified.

“Ratchet, please tell me what I’m looking at here.” Wing looked and sounded like he was trying his hardest to stay calm, the flightpanels of his avatar flicking agitatedly. “Because to me it looks a lot like Shadowplay.”

Ratchet could feel a processor ache beginning. He rubbed at the base of his chevron, sighing both in his frame and with his avatar inside the translation software.

“This is a conversation best had face-to-face.” He said, meeting Wing’s worried optics with his own. “But yes, that damage is the result of a rudimentary form of Shadowplay.”

Wing shuddered, making an abortive attempt to reach towards Ratchet before snatching his hands back.

_Yeah, can’t touch each other in sim-space._

“And the affected code?” Wing asked cautiously. “What was it? I can’t decipher what the translation software is showing me, the glyphwork is like alphabet soup.”

 _Alphabet soup? What the frag is_ that?

“I’ll try my best to explain when we’re outside the program.” Ratchet said firmly, “Having to look at all this is giving me a processor ache.”

Wing’s avatar nodded and vanished, allowing Ratchet to exit and shut the program down. He delayed as long as he could by disconnecting from the datapad accidentally brushing Wing’s fingers as the Knight reached for his own cable. They both flinched and drew back from the contact, Ratchet shaking his helm and snorting even as he felt himself flushing strongly enough to matching the blush burning a bright path across Wing’s cheekpieces in his infrared vision.

Too soon there was nothing to do but explain and try to put as many of Wing’s fears at ease as he could.

_He’s so tense he looks like he’s gonna lock his armour up._

“I was bait; someone targeting a friend used me to lure them in. In the meantime one of the mechs decided to entertain themselves by messing around in my helm.” Ratchet held up a hand and Wing swallowed whatever he was about to say, subsiding onto the couch with the clicking of ruffled armour. “They knew exactly what they were after; it was an in-and-out job, no digging around. Nobody was compromised, including myself.”

_Obviously, otherwise I wouldn’t be sitting here._

“What Bludgeon damaged was what you’d call ‘job satisfaction’ coding, I guess.” It was hard to put it into words, although Ratchet had a sneaking suspicion that Wing would understand _exactly_ what he was talking about. “He removed my ability to feel joy or satisfaction from saving lives or seeing one of my patients healed and fully rehabilitated.”

Wing’s expression was completely neutral but he appeared to be listening

“So far as I can figure out he damaged both the code and physical structures that would enable a medic to find fulfilment in healing.” Ratchet couldn’t keep the bitterness from his voice. He couldn’t even find joy in his successes to counteract the effects of his failures. “Whatever I still feel in my Spark doesn’t make it through and none of the purely mechanical reward structures work anymore. Nothing I’ve tried will restore it. and I can’t let a Mnemosurgeon look at the problem, for obvious reason.”

When he finished speaking it took a few moments for everything he’d said to sink in and process.

When it did, Wing exploded.

The Ovaria leapt up from the couch in one blindingly swift movement, turbines firing and armour flaring in aggressive display as he growled low in his chest. Black hands flexed and curled into fists as Wing’s Field rolled over Ratchet in a thick blanket of _rage/protect/shield/kill_ that made his Spark spin faster with an emotion that definitely wasn’t fear.

All the strength and ferocity of this beautiful mech would be unleashed in his defence if he only said the word. He would never have to fear the world outside the nest when brooding protocols bound him to it; Wing would see to that. Wing and his mate would take on the entire universe for Ratchet if they had to, doing so with every intention of winning and coming back to him. They’d never be alone again…

Ratchet found himself physically leaning into Wing’s Field and hauled himself back upright with a flash of shame. The Ovaria didn’t notice, shaking with rage and the beginnings of transformation. Taking advantage of the distraction Ratchet got his Field back under control, disturbed by how easily it had meshed with Wing’s and even more worried that he hadn’t noticed doing it.

It took several long minutes of trembling on the edge of transformation for Wing to get himself under control again, his vents blasting Ratchet with warm air and the tantalising scent of early morning as he sighed and visibly forced himself to let go of his rage.

“It isn’t right.” Wing murmured. His golden optics were half-lidded as he stared moodily into the middle-distance. “It _isn’t_ _right_ that you are unable to find joy in your calling. _Our_ Sparks _do not_ choose wrongly. What this mech has done to you is unforgiveable.”

“What’s done is done, Wing.” Ratchet tried to offer what comfort he could, projecting his own sense of resignation and acceptance of the situation. “I’ve learned to live with it.”

The Knight mumbled something, shaking his helm as he slowly lowered himself to sit on the edge of the couch, flightpanels flicking and twitching against his back. He looked at Ratchet again, meeting the Incubator’s optics soberly as he addressed him directly.

“You shouldn’t have to get used to it.”

Ratchet had nothing to say to that.

Wing’s optics burned into him and the Ovaria’s Field reached out tentatively. With a sigh Ratchet closed his optics, silently surrendering and accepting the intangible comfort being offered, trying in turn to offer whatever comfort Wing would accept from him. There wasn’t anything else they could do.

 _Reality sucks slag_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~Ratchet and Wing were accidentally flirting through their Fields there when Wing lost his temper. They've both been alone too long and besides that they're starting to REALLY like each other. Oops?  
> ~After reading the wiki page and finding out Bludgeon hurt Ratchet "in ways only a medic would understand" I sat down and came up with as many ideas as I could. Now when I'm writing a fic set in IDW I just go to that file and pick the one that works best with the fic. I figured that being forced to become anhedonic in regards to your calling would be an extra kick in the teeth for Ratchet when combined with the original prompt. When you're unable to find joy in doing something it is so much harder to ignore the negative thoughts that suck you under.  
> ~Wing's comment about 'their' (Syngnath) Sparks not choosing wrongly is essentially true. During maturation the Syngnathi spark is able to control and direct the grown of protoform and armour so that it is the best fit for whatever talents the individual spark possesses. (No point-one percenters, though. Those are hotspot-only sparks)


	21. Rising Tensions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The relationship between Drift and Wing becomes strained as they continue to postpone sorting out their dominance issues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This overlaps the last chapter a little and then jumps forward in time a couple of days.

# Twenty-one

 

Drift felt a sudden blast of absolute _fury_ from Wing and froze.

Almost immediately he received a hastily-typed message reassuring him that there were no immediate issues, but Ratchet had disclosed something extremely relevant to the situation that Drift would have to hear from Ratchet himself.

_If I try to tell you myself I’ll lose my temper completely. I’m sorry, brightspark._

Drift understood completely. He’d seen the damage Wing could do when simply angry. The thought of his mate unleashing the kind of wrath currently scorching through his Spark scared Drift almost as much as the DJD.

Not that his own reaction was much better when he returned home to find two miserable mechs sitting close together with their Fields deeply entwined and heard what Ratchet had to say.

“ _Bludgeon_.”

Drift knew the mech in passing from the beginning of the war.

Now he mentally marked him for death. If the opportunity arose he would happily return Bludgeon’s Spark to the Pit it came from. A sense of approval pulsed briefly from Ianus and Drift cycled his optics in surprise.

_Fragging weird Sword_.

Putting it aside to think about later, Drift prepared strong fuel for all of them with a light sprinkle of something to bring the sweetness down to a more tolerable level. Ratchet excused himself almost as soon as he’d finished his mug, wandering tiredly off to his room with a Field held too close to read.

Wing’s Field licked at his as the soft _click_ of Ratchet’s door closing gave them the illusion of privacy. Heat and charge and simmering anger came through that Drift responded to with understanding and a pulse of arousal. His mate’s temper was always slow to cool and right now he was more than happy to help Wing take the edge off with a good hard fragging. The response to his silent invitation was a lapful of aroused jet and a hungry mouth on his, Wing responding to Drift’s deliberately rough caresses with sensual writhing and quiet moans of encouragement.

_Tonight is gonna be_ good.

He ended up flat on his back in their nest, Wing riding him with powerful, rolling movements. Drift matched his mate thrust for thrust when he wasn’t quivering through an overload. Pleasure flowed between them in waves as sword-callused hands moved over smooth plating and they forgot to keep vocalisers muted. White flightpanels spread wide, mantling over Drift as Wing drove them both to overload after overload until he collapsed with exhaustion.

For once Drift didn’t mind the mess. As soon as their frames cooled enough he wrapped his arms around Wing, nuzzling close to his mate as recharge claimed him.

### ~V~V~V~

Two days after Ratchet’s revelation Wing wandered into the room he and Drift occupied and stopped dead, suddenly on edge.

There was something subtly _different_ about their room. Something that rang alarm bells in his consciousness. He stood still as stone, all senses alert as he tried to figure out what had changed. He flared his flightpanels, trying to detect anything out of the ordinary for the airflow patterns he’d long ago memorised for the confined space.

_Blackbird_ died _last time I slipped up._

A subtle trace of Ratchet’s distinctive scent crossed his chemoreceptors, far stronger than normal for their room. Of course, the Incubator’s scent was all though the apartment, teasing Wing incessantly with what _might_ be; especially now he knew that Ratchet was broody. Normally in here Wing’s scent and that of his mate was strong enough so that Wing could barely pick Ratchet up. Objects around their nest had been subtly disarranged, as if someone unfamiliar with the space had been moving around. As for the nest itself…

“Hey, love.”

Drift’s soft glyphs almost startled Wing right out of his plating. He had been paying so much attention to the room itself that he had completely ignored any information coming from the rest of the apartment. Not that he’d consciously or _sub_ consciously register the approach of his sparkbonded mate as a threat under any but the most extreme circumstances; that was part of the very nature of such Bonds. Neither of them were wearing their Greatswords, so he hadn’t had Aequitas’ quiet awareness of Ianus to warn him either.

“Drift, was someone in here?” Wing asked quietly. “Someone besides us?”

Even though such paranoia was normal and even expected for their kind (Wing’s apartment had been protected by the best security system in New Crystal City) Wing could feel confusion and a little hurt emanating from the younger Ovaria.

“Besides you and me?” The speedster asked.

_He shouldn’t_ need _to clarify!_

“Yes, besides you and me.” Wing snapped, armour rustling. “That’s what ‘us’ _means_ , Drift!”

The flash of confusion and hurt that escaped Drift before the younger Ovaria closed himself off made Wing almost irrationally angry. He cycled his vents slowly and forced himself to wait for Drift’s reply.

_I’m not normally this short-tempered_.

“I asked Ratchet to teach me how to make a proper nest, traded him my magnesium sulphate puff recipe.” Drift’s glyphs were defensive, his Field tucked away out of reach.

Normally it would have been enough, normally Wing would have apologised for snapping so rudely. But right now things _weren’t_ normal. Their uncertain standing hung over both Ovaria, confrontation was inevitable, would continue until they settled things. Despite _knowing_ all this Wing still couldn’t believe his audials as Drift spoke again, deliberately provoking him.

“I didn’t think I needed to get _your_ permission to let Ratchet into _our_ room.” Drift’s armour slowly flared in an argumentative way that fuelled Wing’s barely-controlled temper. “Besides, _his_ name is on the lease, we’re sub-letting from him. So _technically_ it’s Ratchet’s room and not yours _or_ mine so he doesn’t _need_ your permission to come in.”

It was stupid and immature and ignored every single social imperative they lived by, but Drift was still right. The smug little smirk on his mate’s faceplates when he finished speaking was like spark to tinder.

Keeping his Field close to his plating Wing snarled at Drift, turbines whining as they came online. He lashed out, grabbing one of Drift’s forearms where it was crossed over smooth chestplates and using it to jerk the startled mech forward. When Drift was off-balance Wing turned and ducked, hurling Drift right into the centre of the carefully-built nest. Drift landed better than he had the first time Wing used that move on him; taking the impact on his heels and shoulders, back arched to protect the clamps that would hold Ianus along his spine.

Two strides and Wing was beside the nest, looming over the younger Ovaria, vocaliser and turbines making his displeasure known as he finally unleashed his Field. He bore down on Drift, smothering the speedster with his rage and silently demanding that his mate _submit_. There was hurt there as well, hurt along with a thread of jealousy that he couldn’t hide.

_Ratchet would build a nest with him but not me_. They _would… But I’m his_ mate!

### ~V~V~V~

The instant Drift felt jealousy and pain in Wing’s Field he lost all desire to fight. He forced his frame to go limp despite every hard-earned survival instinct screaming at him for leaving himself vulnerable as he relaxed in a way that showed he wasn’t going to fight.

“ _Wing_ ,” A designation-glyph spoken softly in his unadulterated Syngnathi voice, “I _wouldn’t_ choose him over you. Forget for a moment that I can’t, just… believe me, ok? If I had a choice I’d _still_ choose you, Sword or no Sword.”

_I’m greedy. So help me I’d probably try to claim_ both _of you if I thought I could get away with it._

Drift didn’t let any trace of that thought into his Field or across a Bond that was still a fiery presence in his Spark.

Wing’s rage was slow to cool this time, teetering on the edge of an explosion that would force them to _finally_ sort out who was in charge.

_I don’t want to hurt you…_

“Aequitas saved _both_ our lives that day. You were the only thing keeping me in the city, Wing.” Drift was almost surprised to find himself choosing diplomacy over action, more than half afraid that Wing would continue the confrontation. “Fighting’s the only thing I’ve ever known, one way or another. Fighting to survive, fighting my way out of the gutters, fighting for what I believed in.”

_Please listen._

“I didn’t know what to _do_ with peace, without you to keep me there long enough to learn, without you to _show_ me I would have gone right back to the war.” Some of this he’d told his mate before, some of it he hadn’t. Drift cycled his vents, pleading with his optics as he finally admitted out loud what he’d only just acknowledged to himself. “And… if I had gone back I wouldn’t have lasted long. Not knowing I was responsible for your death.”

All he could do was hope that Wing was listening.

### ~V~V~V~

In some ways Wing was glad that Drift completely misunderstood the reason for his jealousy. His Spark was in turmoil, the sound of the front door opening and Ratchet’s heavy pedesteps entering the apartment spelling the end of open hostilities for now.

_I want…_

Their inevitable confrontation had been so close Wing could almost _taste_ it. Now it was postponed _again_. They couldn’t keep doing this forever. There was no way to avoid it. They were going to continue to clash over increasingly pointless things until they re-established their social hierarchy _properly_ as mature Ovaria. As much as Wing just wanted the matter settled he almost got the feeling that Drift _didn’t_ _want_ the battle that was coming, relief thick in the younger mech’s Field as he sat up slowly, keeping a careful optic on Wing the entire time.

_I want_ my _mate, and I want…_

Ratchet’s gait sounded off as he shuffled through to the hallway. They picked up on it at roughly the same time, Drift canting his helm at the door and Wing following the silent signal, approaching the door as the Incubator shuffled into sight. His lower legs and pedes were covered in traces of white, something Wing recognised from the construction of New Crystal City.

_Gypsum powder? How?_

Ratchet stopped when he saw Wing, catching the weird look the jet was giving his pedes.

“Accident at the Clinic, a messy and non-lethal one.” Ratchet sounded disgusted. “Someone dropped a storage bin and this powdered rock stuff got _everywhere_. Somehow it’s gotten into my slagging ankle joints and it itches like the Pit.”

“So you got _plastered_ at work today?” Drift called from where he was still sitting in the nest. “Some Autobot you are. Someone should report you to the CMO.”

Wing shifted so Ratchet could see past him more easily, trying to keep his Field under control as the Incubator approached and peered through the open doorframe.

_He’s so close… I could…_ No _._

“Showing off, are you?” Ratchet sounded amused. “Or are you being a total aft and hogging the bed?”

Drift shifted his position to lounge deliberately, obviously trying to take up as much room as he could.

“Might be a bit of both.” He said cheekily. “Might also be trying to convince Wing to come in here and _make_ me make room.”

Ratchet rolled his optics at the blatant innuendo and Drift’s sensual subglyphs, plating twitching and Field retreating out of reach.

“I’ll leave you two to it, then.” His voice was dry as he turned away and headed for the washracks. “I need to get this stuff out of my seams, Clinic hoses are only good for so much. I think some of it actually _set_ in there.”

With that Ratchet shuffled to the washracks. Wing watched him go, helpless in the grip of instincts and desires he could do nothing about. It had been far, far too long for both of them and yet right now was the worst possible time to even consider doing anything about the medic’s broodiness or Wing’s own lack of Incubator contact.

When the washrack door closed on Ratchet, Wing turned to see Drift giving him a sober look from their nest. His mate wordlessly opened his arms and Wing all but threw himself at the offer of comfort, clinging to Drift and cursing the situation they were in.

_I just… I want… It isn’t_ fair _._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, poor Winglet. What's going on with him here?  
> ~He wants to get things sorted out with Drift. He's been through this before and doesn't understand why Drift is stalling. Leaving it unresolved is EXTREMELY stressful for both of them. (Drift's never dealt with the social dynamics between adult Ovaria and he's afraid. I won't say any more now because spoilers. He's also much better at dealing with uncertainty and constant low-level stress than Wing because of Rodion+War)  
> ~There's a lot of Ovaria-specific jealousy in Wing right now that Drift doesn't quite /get/ yet and it's not entirely logical considering their unique situation. Still; Wing wants to be the one Ratchet chooses to carry for first, wants to be the one building a /proper/ nest with him (not just one for sleeping in). Also, Wing is sparkbonded to Drift so there is some mate-jealousy, an instinctive reaction aimed at Ratchet for 'trying to steal his mate'. He also feels a little inadequate because he hasn't been through what they have (he feels like a wuss next to them) and doesn't want to have these feelings 'confirmed' by Ratchet choosing Drift over him. Even though they SHOULD come as a set they don't necessarily have to. He doesn't quite understand the bad blood from the war that Drift and Ratchet have had to overcome and what they have yet to sort out.
> 
>  
> 
> IANUS, WHAT THE FUCK?!  
> What Drift's Greatsword approved of here was NOT Drift deciding to kill, but /how/ he decided to. Drift's not going out on a murderous rampage or setting out to hunt Bludgeon down, he's only going to kill the mech IF they run into eachother. This is a MASSIVE change for Drift, even though he doesn't realise it yet.


	22. Rocks and Rhythm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ratchet learns more about Wing.  
> The Ovaria overstep the line.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, another chapter has been added to the projected final number. It's a guesstimate at this point TuT  
> Pulling 6 day workweeks as often as I can to save for TFCon in October so I don't even know what is going on with the editing here. Apologies in advance 0.0;

# Twenty-Two

 

The day was chilly and overcast but that didn’t bother the three mechs as they strolled casually through a street market. It was a total accident that they had ended up back here; at the same place they’d first encountered one another. If either of the younger mechs realised where they were they didn’t say anything. As for Ratchet, he was vaguely amused by the coincidence but didn’t bring it up, unwilling to get either of the Knights started on some spiritual monologue about the vagaries of fate or destiny. By now he was half-convinced they did things like that just to get a rise out of him.

His first –and only- chore was to check at the official post office near the market to see if any official dispatches had arrived. There weren’t any of those (to Ratchet’s great relief) but there _was_ an extremely unofficial packet from Jazz. Somehow he’d managed to disguise it as junk mail and still have it reach Ratchet safely. The ridiculous thing warmed Ratchet’s Spark as he automatically ran a scan over the slim package before tucking it safely into subspace for later reading.

_Looks like my gossip update. Nice of him to go to all this effort just to keep me in the loop._

As soon as Ratchet stepped outside the post office building his optics were drawn to the two Ovaria. Their healthy, well-polished armour seemed to glow even with the cloud cover dimming the light and lending everything a grey tinge. It made Ratchet suddenly conscious of his own finish and he felt a sudden surge of self-consciousness, aware that a buffing cloth –let alone any form of polish- hadn’t touched his plating since the evening they’d sat down together in _Chushingura_ and the Ovaria had revealed themselves.

_So much has changed since then_.

His Spark twisted, knowing that what had seemed so complicated on that first night was laughably simple when compared to the confusion that faced them now. Blue optics flashed, Drift looking at him with a small, shy smile flickering across his faceplates. He nudged Wing and the jet’s brilliant smile at seeing him made Ratchet’s spark shiver.

_I wish…_

It was an effort, but he managed to get his Field under control before they had waded across the street and through streams of fragile organic pedestrians to join him outside the post office.

“So, since we’re in the area, how about we check out the artisan stalls?” Wing suggested brightly, bouncing on his pedes a little. “I want to see what the stone merchants have at the moment.”

A strange noise from Drift drew Ratchet’s attention. The speedster was wearing a strange look of suppressed panic that seemed extremely out of place. He looked at his mate with open pleading in his optics, obviously saying something to Wing through their sparkbond because he got a mild version of the jet’s Turbopup Optics. Drift responded with a truly pathetic look and loose armour, at which Wing relented with a wry expression and a subtle flick of his fingers.

_Obvious as the fraggin’ sun._

“Um, I need to go grab some things for the kitchen before the stalls close.” Drift babbled, turning to Ratchet. “We’re almost out of titanium and I want to get more graphite from this place that has a, um, thing. I’ll catch up with you guys later.”

Wing actually started laughing as Drift folded down into his altmode and drove off as fast as traffic laws allowed.

“What the slag was that all about?” Ratchet asked bemusedly, feeling like he was missing something.

“Drift hates looking at rocks.” Wing sounded highly amused by the situation, his Field rich and smooth where it brushed against Ratchets. “Unless he can drive on them.”

Ratchet shook his head as he turned to walk beside Wing, heading for the stalls the Ovaria had expressed interest in. They walked in companionable silence for a few minutes. While they were letting a group of short biomechanoid beings pass ahead of them Ratchet decided to prompt Wing to explain himself when it became obvious that the Knight thought that what he’d said was obvious.

“I still don’t get it.”

Wing gave him a puzzled look that was quickly replaced by understanding and an adorably scrunched nasal ridge. His cheekpieces flexed with embarrassment and silent apology that flowed out into his Field.

“I keep forgetting that we haven’t really known you all that long and you still don’t know us as well as we know each other.” Wing said, using Sparkbonded pluralities and seeming to be talking to himself. His voice was soft enough that Ratchet had to specifically filter out background noise or lean in to hear him. White flightpanels flicked and Wing continued with slightly more volume. “After we finished building the City I couldn’t spend as much time as normal in the air, and I needed something to do with my time.”

There was old sorrow and the memory of claustrophobia present in his glyphs and Field as they walked. Ratchet suppressed the desire to reach out and try to soothe it away.

“I was part of the original survey team tasked to find an appropriate site for the City, and one of the other mechs on the team was a master carver. They offered to teach me how to work stone.” Wing gave a self-deprecating smile. “Just small pieces, decorative ones mainly. I was quite surprised to find that I actually quite enjoyed it; the challenge of finding the form hidden in the stone and shaping it certainly helped me adjust to life in the City.”

He trailed off into thoughtful silence for a while and Ratchet couldn’t think of anything to say to fill the gap until Wing spoke again. By now they were walking so slowly Ratchet wondered why they were even moving at all, dawdling along as if they had all the time in the universe to share tales of their lives.

“One of the first pieces I finished had veins of quartz through the rock, which gave me the idea to branch out into lapidary.” Flightpanels and guidance flaps all flicked in a shrug. “I’m still very much an amateur, but it was definitely easier to find a variety of gemstones when good stone for carving became harder to get.”

Even though he was still talking to him Ratchet got the feeling Wing was more than half thinking aloud. Electric intensity turned the jet’s Field dense and thrilling in a way Ratchet hadn’t often encountered since the war began. He wanted to lean into it, wrap that vitality around himself like a shield.

“Gemstones _can_ be manufactured in the lab, although there’s nothing quite like the challenge of taking something the universe has created and finding the best way to show off its beauty.” Wing’s optics burned bright gold, focused on some vague point in memory. “What you have is something truly unique, no other piece of stone exists like it and it is all up to your imagination and skill to find its potential and try to realise it.”

Ratchet was spellbound by the enthusiasm Wing showed when talking about his hobby. Never mind how weird it was for an active Flightframe to have a hobby that involved long hours of sitting still and getting covered in dust. It was certainly a unique solution to the problem of what to do with a sudden increase in free time and keep his processors off the fact that he had been living in what was essentially a giant cave.

_He took what could have been prison walls and turned them into a source of creative potential._

It was so in line with everything Ratchet had learned about the older Ovaria and his personality that he had to smile, looking away to try to hide it.

“That sounds plausible, coming from you.” Ratchet said dryly, trying to hide how the jet’s speech had affected him. “Completely fragging insane for a Flightframe, so completely reasonable for Knight Wing.”

He caught the bright flash of denta out of the corner of his optic as Wing caught his expression and answered with another brilliant smile of his own. Disobediently, Ratchet’s optics flicked back to focus on Wing. The slightly mischievous joy and sheer _life_ radiating from the mech was irresistible; Ratchet didn’t notice that he’d moved closer until their fingers brushed and he pulled away.

Wing’s smile became extremely mischievous and he reached out, catching Ratchet’s arm easily. He tucked the stabilising fin on his own forearm away so he could wrap Ratchet’s hand around his armour in a casual, familiar way. Ratchet had walked the streets of Iacon and his birth city like this many times with friends and lovers in the past. Memories of one particular Ovaria from home mingled with Wing’s presence at his side and warmed Ratchet’s frame briefly before guilt flashed through him as he thought of Drift.

_Stop. He’s taken and you are in NO position to offer yourself._

“Here, let me show you exactly why Drift hates looking at rocks with me.” Wing said cheerfully as he began leading Ratchet over to the first stall with a display of rough, lumpy stones of various sizes. “I promise I’ll go easy on you.”

Ratchet couldn’t help himself, he laughed.

“Do your worst.” He said. “Compared to some of the official meetings I’ve napped through, looking at rocks sounds _scintillating_.” Ratchet’s glyphs deliberately played on references to sparkling gemstones and dazzling entertainment.

He was rewarded with one of Wing’s musical laughs as the jet found a good position near the first booth and settled into a low-voiced monologue that Ratchet listened to with a small smile playing unnoticed around the corners of his lipplates and deep contentment filling his Spark. Wing eventually purchased some irregular lumps of something-or-other and not even an odd throbbing in Ratchet’s tanks could ruin the afternoon as Wing’s infectious enthusiasm brightened the cloudy day. Drift rejoined them and together they moved on through the market, chatting and wandering from stall to stall, making the most of the rare peace.

### ~V~V~V~

The pulsing in his tanks didn’t go away.

It was starting to annoy Ratchet a bit, especially because of the way it seemed to synch with the pulse of whichever Ovaria was within EMF range. He couldn’t concentrate whenever it happened, having to rudely pull his Field from the light social contact they all enjoyed or retreat to his room in order to get some peace. Keeping his Field to himself made both of the younger mechs hover closer, asking him if he was alright. Leaving the room would, without fail, have one of them tapping at his berthroom door to check on him and ask if he needed anything.

The tension in the apartment increased slowly, even though they all made an active effort to keep the peace. Ratchet found the clinic to be a welcome sanctuary. He was able to feel useful, centring himself somewhat with the familiar bustle and activity of a hectic medical practice. It was a blessed distraction from the strange activity within his frame and the obviously unresolved situation between the two Ovaria.

_They really need to get their hierarchy sorted out, dammit. This is ridiculous!_

Both Drift and Wing seemed to be avoiding the inevitable and Ratchet just couldn’t figure out why they were doing it. They both spent ridiculous amounts of time in meditation, fragging loudly and long into the night so often that Ratchet started to wonder if _that_ was how they planned to sort things out between them.

_Fragging your subordinates into accepting your authority? Might be fun but it sounds exhausting._

Drift seemed to be determined to wear out his axels at the local racing circuit. Wing was taking more long-haul deliveries, giving Ratchet and Drift plenty of time to dissect terrible (and not-so-terrible) movies and have increasingly awkward conversations about what Ratchet planned to do if he had another ‘incident’. 

One evening Ratchet finally ran out of patience with both of the Knights at once.

All of them were sitting on the floor, the Ovaria lounging together in a tangle of smooth plating, almost too close to where Ratchet sat with his back propped against the couch.

Some of the smaller code edits he’d made seemed to be holding, so now Drift was asking difficult questions, trying to get Ratchet to establish what he called the ‘chain of events’ that ended with him needing physical pain to blot out the mental pain of twisted coding. Both Ovaria were blithely ignoring all of Ratchet’s attempts to keep his Field from becoming too deeply entangled with theirs, pressing deep in a misguided attempt to provide comfort.

_I need them to back off, slaggit! And they_ won’t!

Being bonded, their Sparks created a complex rhythm to the harmony of their meshed Fields that continually distracted Ratchet as it seemed to resonate right through his frame and take up residence somewhere in his abdomen. He struggled to concentrate on anything but that rhythm, barely keeping his own Field under control and continually losing his train of thought, which had the younger mechs very worried. Wing watched him with knowing optics from his place on the floor, probably guessing what was really distracting the Incubator. Ratchet _knew_ the older Ovaria was filtering his Field to avoid taking advantage of his broody coding and the display of consideration annoyed him even as he silently thanked Wing for it.

Drift was speaking but the twitching in Ratchet’s tanks distracted him _again_ ; the rapid beat of a second pulse low in his belly that seemed unable to choose between synchronising with one Ovaria over the other. They were both too close, their Fields too evenly and deeply meshed with his own. He wished it would pick one or the other or just _stop_ ; he wanted both Ovaria to stop prying and leave him alone.

“Ratchet, are you listening?” Drift sounded like he had already asked something like that several times.

Wing was reaching out, his Field advancing along with his hand.

Concern pressed in on Ratchet from all sides, suffocating him. Pressure built inside, everything he wanted and everything he didn’t need threatening to burst forth in an explosion of words he wouldn’t be able to take back. Helpless to stop it, all Ratchet could do was try to guide the outburst towards something that would hurt them all less in the long run.

_I’m sorry._

“Primus _below_ , will you two stop fragging _fussing_ over me like this?” Ratchet snarled, flaring his armour and forcing them both _out_ of the EMF merge with pure aggravation. “It’s like being slagging _suffocated_.”

He forced himself to stand up despite the weight in his abdomen like a rock trying to hold him down, keep him within range of those Fields. Two sets of optics stared up at him; Drift understanding and guilty, Wing confused and hurt. Ratchet forced himself through several long, slow ventilation cycles, determinedly ignoring the dusty, sweet scents rising from the pair of Ovaria half-lying at his pedes.

_Not mine, can never be mine. They belong with each other._

“I’m going for a drive.” Ratchet declared, “Before I say anything _unwise_.”

Neither Ovaria spoke as he stomped out of the apartment and closed the door firmly behind him.

### ~V~V~V~

Wing cycled his optics, feeling Drift’s confusion matching his across the Bond. The sound of Ratchet stomping to the street and transforming to drive off was as clearly audible as the not-quite-slam of the door had been. Unlike the last time Ratchet had left in an unstable emotional state Wing felt no desire to chase after him; the Incubator’s Field had been _more_ than enough warning for him.

Neither Knight twitched as a heavy grounder engine snarled outside, fading into the distance as Ratchet did as he said he would. When the sound was swallowed up by the usual daytime noises Drift sighed. Wing leaned into his mate, feeling the weight of Drift’s helm come to rest comfortably on his turbine.

“What _was_ that, exactly?” Wing asked. “Besides Ratchet being Ratchet.”

“I _think_ that was him putting us in our place” Drift sounded thoughtful, his vents ghosting a sigh across Wing’s plating. “It’s a good thing, I think. Setting some boundaries.”

“You _think_ it’s a good thing?” Wing twisted his helm around to nuzzle Drift awkwardly. “You know damn well what I’m like when someone tells me not to do something, and you’re exactly the same!”

Drift huffed a soft laugh and poked at one of the ticklish places on Wing’s side in retaliation as he projected affection at the teasing. Wing responded with a yelp and all the love he felt for his unlooked-for mate, kissing the delicate sweep of one finial-disguised horn.

“Well it’s _definitely_ good that I have that overnight delivery tomorrow, then.” He murmured, still feathering soft kisses along every part of Drift’s horn that he could reach. “I’ll be able to use the time to meditate; keep myself from smothering him.”

“Just don’t smother _me_ instead.” Drift growled, only half teasing.

Wing respected the warning, silently reassuring the younger Ovaria as Drift rose to his knees and twisted around to capture his mouth in a deep kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~Poor Drift, he's been forced to do SO MUCH standing around while Wing looks at rocks XD  
> ~Ratchet's body is SO READY for some Ampulla, to get his flirt on with some good old Nuptial Gifting ...Mind and spark not so much. (If you want to know roughly what the process looks like, check out Ch6 of 'In Plain Sight')
> 
> Um... next chapter looks like it's gonna be pretty long. Might or might not split it up. We're getting closer to the Big Ovaria Showdown so we'll see.


	23. Nocturne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things that scream and murder pillows in the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to go up last month, but I'm out of buffer and this one got long then it fought me and these assholes started giving me so many feels I wanted to chew on the washing machine because I COULDN'T HANDLE THE JANDAL, OK?!
> 
> Songs for this chapter: [ [Conturbatio](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VSv72WXL4k8) ] by Kajiura Yuki, [ [Protection](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Epgo8ixX6Wo) ] by Massive Attack, [ [Sleep](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ugnv-h343gI)] by Conjure One.

# Twenty-Three

 

Even after Ratchet returned from his drive and all three of them had made awkward apologies the atmosphere in the apartment was still strained. All it took for Drift and Wing to agree on having an early night was a glance and a quick exchange of emotions through their bond.

Bidding Ratchet good recharge they retreated to their room to escape the awkwardness and give the Incubator some space. Once they were safely in their room with the door closed behind them the Ovaria resumed their true forms. Wing stretched until his struts crackled while Drift dove straight into the comfy nest he’d built and waited for Wing to join him. When he did they curled up together in a tight ball of armour plating and enmeshed Fields, seeking comfort in closeness.

Wing slipped into recharge easily but Drift was unable to follow his mate into sleep. Every time he managed to cycle down he found himself twitching awake after an hour at most. While he was focusing on his vents and mentally reciting a calming mantra, Drift’s audials caught Ratchet’s (relatively) quiet pedesteps travelling down the hallway past their room.

The sound of the washrack turning on sent a heavy spike of anxiety through his lines, strong enough to bring Wing partly awake. Stirring and mumbling worriedly, Wing tightened his arms around Drift, pulling the speedster closer. Drift hummed reassurance and nuzzled the older Ovaria’s helm until Wing sighed and buried his nasal ridge in Drift’s neck cables, sinking back into recharge without ever having fully awakened.

Ratchet must have only been sluicing off road grime from his drive because after a few minutes Drift heard the solvent shut off and drying fans activate. Relaxing, Drift listened as the Incubator came back past their door and entered his own sleeping room. Eventually the muffled sound of Ratchet’s vents in recharge filtered through the apartment, occasionally drowned out by the occasional quiet _whoosh_ of air through Wing’s turbines as the jet twitched through flying dreams.

The night crawled by.

Drift only managed to get a few hours of broken recharge before his alarm went off. When morning same he felt like one giant exposed nervecircuit; mind scraped raw despite the fact that he was full of energy and his frame felt like it could drive top speed all the way back to Cybertron itself. Wing sensed his state immediately, long familiarity with days like these making him intensely worried about being away from his mate for his scheduled delivery. He didn’t even need to say anything; his emotions came through loud and clear seconds after he woke and discovered Drift’s mental and emotional state.

Of course, all of this made Drift want to snap at Wing for fussing over him.

The desire was stronger than normal, fuelled by their as-yet undetermined hierarchy. This constant urge to snarl at his mate made Drift uneasy. So instead of going with his first reaction Drift tried instead to reassure the older Knight, projecting all the confidence he could muster. Despite his best efforts his Field still jangled with the irritation he felt, something that Wing silently forgave before he could even apologise for it.

They still had a few hours before Ratchet would be up and around so they went through their usual quiet morning routine, Wing meditating and stretching while Drift prepared fuel for all of them, leaving Ratchet’s covered mug on the small kitchen counter while Wing sipped slowly from his own and teased Drift about how fast the younger Ovaria chugged his fuel down. Drift rolled his optics instead of teasing back and risking the fight that his coding wanted, moving silently into his own series of stretches as soon as Wing took his empty cup.

_I don’t want to hurt him._

As a silent apology for his bad mood, Drift walked with Wing to the nearest launch point for flight-capable beings, kissing his mate for luck. He watched Wing transform, tracking his flight until the white jet was a tiny speck in the sky before taking to his wheels and forging a slow path through morning traffic, heading to one of the racetracks. He had plans to meet with some racing enthusiasts of other species for a few competitions and swapping trick-driving moves and didn’t want to cancel despite already wanting to crawl back into his nest and sleep the day away.

After the meetup Drift hoped to get in a long, hard drive. One long enough to wear himself out so his frame would force recharge no matter how much his processors protested the idea.

He was only partially successful. Roadworks and bad weather had him turning around and heading home far earlier than he’d wanted to

Drift ended up returning to the quiet, empty apartment much earlier than planned with aching struts and a familiar itchy hunger crawling through his lines. It was the worst day he’d had with his addiction in a long time and it only got harder when he saw Ratchet had left his Autobot gossip update on the couch. Not only did Jazz’s thoughtfulness remind him of Gasket on his better days, it stung Drift because he knew that nobody in the ‘Cons would have done something like that for him.

Not even Shockwave.

_Ratchet must be_ really _important to them for Jazz to use Resources on something like that... I wonder if he realises how much they rate him?_

Gently blocking the bond to Wing, Drift sighed as he hung Ianus in their room and retreated to the washracks, scrubbing and polishing every inch of his frame in an attempt to distract himself from aching struts and the Syk-hunger slithering through his lines.

_It’s because I’m tired and this Dominance thing is stressing me out. That’s why it’s so bad today._

When Drift finished and realised what he looked like –polished to a mirror finish with Wing away and their pecking order still undetermined- he wanted to die of shame. He was seriously considering another drive to dull the fresh polish when Ratchet returned from the clinic, greeting him as usual and not making a single reference to Drift’s gleaming finish.

The Incubator’s calm Field soothed the jagged edges of Drift’s irritation and staying in suddenly seemed far more appealing than a long drive in the rain. So Drift found himself suggesting they watch the most genteel and respectable film he could think of and sitting as far away from Ratchet as he could get while still being on the couch. He made himself as small as possible with knees tucked up, arms wrapped around them and Field held to the lightest possible social contact. Drift barely payed attention to film as his thoughts chased themselves in circles around the inside of his processors. He desperately wanted to let go of his tight control and lean on Ratchet for support the same way he would with Wing on days like this.

_I’m a slagging_ idiot _._

When the movie ended he made some excuse about being tired and all but ran from the room before Ratchet could say anything. Shutting the berthroom door, Drift threw himself into the nest that smelled of his mate and silently cursed his own stupidity until recharge finally claimed him.

 

### ~V~V~V~

 

As usual Ratchet woke up several times in the night, floating for a while in a half-aware state before dozing off again.

It was his normal pattern, getting in light defrags of different parts of his processors so that a full deep cycle where he’d be harder to awaken and therefore more vulnerable (and had worse nightmares) wasn’t needed very often. This habit had started long before the war –around the time the Institute had captured Senator Shockwave – and the war had only reinforced and cemented it. Each time he partially woke he simply registered the fact that he was more conscious than otherwise, made a vague check of his chronometer, listened for anything that needed his attention and slipped back down into another cycle if felt he had time for it, otherwise he’d get up.

Nightmares played merry havoc with this recharge pattern but Ratchet had found that the longer Ovaria stayed the fewer nightmares he seemed to be having. He figured it was something about having other Syngnathi nearby to keep an optic out for danger, which would put to rest a lot of the older fears that haunted his nights. So even with Wing away and only one other set of sensors on the watch for danger the night went more-or-less normally for Ratchet. He came up a couple of times after one nightmare and some partial defrags, going through the familiar routine of checking his chronometer and listening for trouble. When nothing flagged an alert he shifted to a more comfortable position and slipped back down into deeper recharge.

Then on the third or fourth such awakening something grabbed his attention, bringing him back to full awareness so he could parse the potential threat.

_Huh?_

A sound.

A moan of distress and pain in a familiar voice; indistinct murmurings steadily increasing in volume.

_Drift?_

Worried, Ratchet was already out of his nest and on his pedes when Drift screamed.

_Slag!_

Ratchet bolted for the door, slamming into the outer edge of Drift’s EMF out in the hallway. It felt like he had run into a wall. Uncontrolled an under the influence of a nightmare, the true strength of Drift’s Field was fully apparent. Reeling, Ratchet could feel Drift’s terror eat at his sensors and stability as he tried to push his way forwards through the storm.

_What the slag is going on?_

Somehow he got the door open, flicking the light on to reveal an astonishing scene.

Drift was apparently still unconscious at the same time as he thrashed around in the middle of a thoroughly destroyed nest, screaming fit to blow his vocaliser out. The younger Syngnath was obviously in the grips of a truly horrific nightmare, one that Ratchet wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the details of, given what he was picking up from Drift’s Field.

Bracing himself, Ratchet shifted his vocaliser and did the only thing he could think of to wake Drift up safely.

“ _DRIFT!_ ”

It was the shout designed to be heard over a chaotic Medbay or across a battlefield, delivered with the full range of his Syngnathi vocaliser and accompanied by a sharp EM pulse.

It worked.

Blue optics flared into life, magnesium-bright beacons in the tangle of armour and blankets. Ratchet hummed soothingly, utilising the lower end of his vocal range and projecting calm at the Ovaria. Drift shook himself, his Field sucked back out of sensing range so fast Ratchet actually swayed on his pedes, steadying himself with a hand against the doorframe.

“Rrr-cht?” Drift rasped, resetting his vocaliser with an audible sound as his Field reappeared, feeling completely normal. Ratchet’s hum faltered and faded as Drift repeated what he’d been trying to say. “Ratchet? What?”

“You were screaming fit to wake the dead.” Ratchet said as nonjudgmentally as he could. “Sounded like one Pit of a nightmare.”

Drift cycled his optics as he became more alert. Then his Field flooded with embarrassment before suddenly retreating from contact again.

“Yeah.” The speedster’s voice was subdued and he wouldn’t look at Ratchet. “Sorry for waking you up. I, um, forgot to switch my vocaliser off.”

There was something about Drift’s expression and the way he pressed a double-handful of shredded blanket to his chestplates that made Ratchet pause.

“You wanna talk about it?”

Drift glanced up at him; obviously not sure that he was being serious and just as obviously struggling with himself when he figured out that Ratchet really _was_ serious. Eventually Drift made up his mind. His Field reached out, seeking support that Ratchet gave without a moment’s hesitation.

“It’s the dominance thing, I keep dreaming about it.” The Ovaria’s voice was so low Ratchet had trouble making it out. “And every time I do… in the dream I lose control and rip Wing apart.” He was shivering now, shaking with badly-suppressed desperation and fear Ratchet could feel thick in his Field. As if that had been the crack in the dam, everything Drift had obviously been suppressing just poured out of him. “Ratchet, _I don’t want to do this_. I don’t want to hurt him. I’ve managed to avoid it so far but one day I _won’t be able to_ and I’m slagging _terrified_ that when it happens I’ll lose control and I’ll _kill_ him.”

Ratchet cycled his vents in a long sigh, rubbing at his chevron to ease aching sensors. After running into Drift’s full-strength EMF everything felt bruised and the stress currently pouring off the young Ovaria wasn’t helping.

“You won’t kill him, kid.” He said tiredly. “It’s a normal fear; but trust me, you won’t.”

His words weren’t as convincing as he’d hoped. Drift was still looking at him with overbright optics and radiating worry.

“How do you know?” The speedster asked, curling in on himself. “We’re both fighters, and with... Wing might have to knock me out to stop me, and that’s going to mean a _lot_ of damage. He’s better than me but I’ve got way more experience with fighting dirty.”

Ratchet fought the urge to facepalm. As much as he wanted to, now was _not_ the time.

“I assume Shockwave never explained this aspect of life to you?” Ratchet asked, confident of that much.

Drift shook his helm, the movement confirming what Ratchet suspected. Right now the speedster looked more like a lost and confused sparkling than a deadly warrior with a kill count that only SpecOps and Drift himself knew for sure.

“Figures.” Ratchet braced himself for the answer to his next question. “Has Wing ever sat down and explained this to you with actual words?”

_Pit, he’s looking at me like I’ve got the secrets of the universe or something_.

More helm-shaking. More of those wide, lost optics.

Ratchet wanted to throttle something.

_This is going to be slagging awkward._

“This is so _not_ my area of expertise, kid. But I’ll try.” Ratchet lowered himself down to sit on the edge of the trashed nest. “From what I understand; Ovaria settle their hierarchy with something a lot like EMF fragging, but it’s more aggressive and a lot less… arousing, I think is the word. It starts out with your usual snarling and posturing, then Fields come in and combat ensues until someone backs down or is proved to be, well, _inferior_ to the other at that point in time.”

“Proved inferior how?” Drift asked.

_Slag me. Please just slag me right now._

“Someone described it to me once as something like an overload from EMF 'facing.” Ratchet’s optics tracked around the room and fixed on a particularly interesting piece of shredded blanket. “There’s release of charge and the relief after, but this Ovaria said that instead of physical pleasure it was more of an emotional thing connected to the assurance of _knowing_ where they stood.” Ratchet shrugged helplessly, feeling completely out of his depth. “I really don’t understand it very well. ‘M sorry kid.”

Somehow this appeared to make sense to Drift. His helm tilted to the side and he frowned as he thought Ratchet’s words over. Eventually he nodded and the frown faded, leaving him with an expression to match the relief creeping into his Field. Then his lipplates twitched and Ratchet felt a vague sense of dread. By now he knew all too well that Drift tried to use humour to recover from awkward situations.

“So, what do Incubators do to figure out who’s in charge?” The Ovaria’s optics sparkled with mischief as he made a hand gesture over his own chest, one Ratchet recognised from several (terrible) Earth movies in the Ovarias’ collection. “Do you compare chest sizes?”

“W-what? No.” Ratchet spluttered, feeling embarrassed heat bloom through his faceplates and chevron. “No! Not some slagging _bikini contest_ , you glitched whelp!”

“If you say so.” Drift said with a mocking little smirk and Ratchet fought the urge to smack him upside the helm.

Instead he forced his optics away from the curve of Drift’s lipplates and got up with as much dignity as he could manage, brushing away bits of stuffing and stray threads that had gotten snagged on his armour.

“Brat.” He growled again, trying to shove aside the emotions summoned by Drift’s mention of chest size and the way his gestation/maturation chamber had started aching. “I’m going back to recharge, you can tell yourself a bedtime story.”

Drift looked as if he wanted to stick his glossa out, but he rolled his optics instead. Then he started trying to unwind the rest of the blankets from his frame, wobbling his way up to a kneeling position and tugging futilely at the mess tangled around him. The younger mech glanced up and caught the odd look Ratchet was giving him.

“I trashed the bed; gotta fix it.” Drift muttered an explanation, struggling to get to his pedes with the ruined blankets hampering his movements.

Ratchet cycled his optics and looked around, taking in his surroundings properly for the first time. He’d been so focused on Drift that he hadn’t even glanced around once.

_Jazz would_ kill _me for a slip like that._

It looked like a small bomb had gone off.

There were blankets and cushions everywhere, some of them looking far more mauled than Ratchet remembered from showing Drift how to build a decent nest. Little bits of stuffing fluttered in the breeze Drift’s efficient speedster ventilation system created as his frame went from stress-induced overheating to normal operating temperature in record time.

The room was a total mess.

Something in Ratchet rebelled at the thought of cleaning it up right at that moment.

_Civilian life is making me soft._

“Come on, kid.” He said gruffly, standing carefully and holding a hand out to the confused speedster. “We’ll clean this up in the morning.”

Drift froze, his optics flickered between Ratchet’s face and his outstretched hand as his helm canted slowly sideways. He looked dangerously similar to Prowl on the verge of a full processor crash.

_Did I just break him?_

So far as Ratchet could tell there wasn’t any reason for Drift to react like this. He was offering to share a safe resting space with Kin; that was all. It was common practice and Ratchet had many fond memories of waking up in a warm, comfortable tangle of limbs and Fields from before he’d moved to Iacon.

“I, um, Wing.” Drift stuttered uncomfortably as Ratchet slowly dropped his hand. “Should ask him. I should, first. Before. Um, I mean.”

“Alright kid, keep your paint on.” Ratchet fought the urge to growl, activating his internal comms and linking to the local network, placing a call to Wing as he spoke. “I’ll comm him.”

Wing answered quickly.

_Bond echo probably woke him up._

[Drift just had the progenitor of all nightmares, in case he shielded you from it.]  Ratchet said. [Did a fair job of trashing your nest with all his flailing; is it alright with you if I drag him into mine where I can keep an eye on the stubborn little git and make sure he’s fine?]

As his systems cycled down from high alert and more rational thought processes returned Ratchet became aware of what the situation looked like. Despite the way he’d been reacting so far, neither of the Ovaria were actually part of his Clan. In reality, inviting the young Ovaria into his nest like this suggested something completely different to what he’d intended.

_Oh, slag me._

Ratchet _wasn’t_ courting them for even a brief liaison, let alone anything more permanent; no matter _what_ his deeper coding wanted. As Ratchet knew all too well, he was in no position to think about wooing _anyone_. Certainly not Ovaria with as much going for them as these two had.

The unspoken implications of Drift in his nest were still there, though. And once he’d become aware of them Ratchet couldn’t seem to scrub the thoughts from his processor.

_But_ s _omeone needs to keep an optic on Drift and I’m the only one here, damn it!_

[I… please. _Thank_ you. Otherwise he would just spend all night thinking about it and coming up with thousands of worst-case scenarios.] Wing sounded grateful, although there was an undercurrent to his words that made Ratchet’s Spark do an odd little twisting leap. [Even with Ianus leaning on him it isn’t easy to get Drift out of one of _those_ moods.]

Ratchet’s optics flickered to the wall where Drift’s Greatsword hung, jewelled hilt glimmering softly with reflected light. The place where Aequitas would be was thankfully empty.

[The Sword. Right.] Ratchet still didn’t trust either of the Greatswords. [Is he gonna want to bring that too?]

[No, **they’ll** be fine.] Wings’ choice of plural glyph made Ratchet’s tanks roll, given what it confirmed of his suspicions about the weapons. [Just get Drift to stay still long enough to fall into recharge again so he doesn’t spend the night brooding himself into a funk. I’ll be home as early as I can manage tomorrow.]

[Don’t break any laws.] Ratchet was only half-joking as he forced himself to keep his optics off the way Drift was bending and twisting to get at bits of slaughtered cushion where they’d gotten caught on the plates of his thigh armour. [If I’m keeping Drift from a mope session I’m not exactly going to be albe to come bail you out.]

Wing’s laugh sounded more than a little strained.

[Don’t worry, I’ll behave myself.] The Ovaria said, genuine gratitude in his glyphs. [Thank you for looking after Drift for me, Ratchet. I’ll see you both tomorrow.]

With that he cut the commlink, leaving Ratchet to wait for Drift to finish sorting himself out so they could go get some rest.

Looking at the Knight brushing bits of fluff and fabric scraps off his plating, Ratchet wondered when he’d started seeing Drift as _himself_ and not a walking reminder of his past; Deadlock with a mask on. A memory of despair and vulnerability wreathed in steam intruded, accompanied by the echoing ghost of impossible words spoken in a rich voice. Ratchet shook his helm to clear it, huffing through his vents to expel any bits of fluff he might have inhaled.

_Living together like this I guess it was inevitable…_

 

### ~V~V~V~

 

_::Why is he doing this?::_ The bond was wide open so Drift knew his mate could feel how confused he was as his thoughts ran in circles. _::Is he hitting on me? Does he want to court us?::_

Drift could no longer deny to himself that he liked the Incubator, enough to want to court the mech for things that were possible as well as those that weren’t. But the situation was too complicated, he couldn’t risk letting his own selfish desires get in the way of helping Ratchet untangle the mess that war had left his coding in. He almost thought he felt an answering flicker from Wing across the bond, one of unspoken longing tinged with complicated jealousy. But it was there and gone again so fast Drift figured he’d imagined it. 

_::There’s a lot of reasons he could be offering, love.::_ Wing’s words and steady presence were bracing _. ::Use those horns of yours, what does his Field say?::_

Wishing he could smack himself upside the helm for not doing it sooner, Drift did as Wing suggested. What he found was reassuring, although Drift found himself a little disappointed at the same time.

_:: His Field feels more… I dunno, like I’m Clan and he’s trying to comfort me or something.::_

He got the impression of a sigh from Wing, along with a complicated tangle of emotions that Drift knew the older Ovaria wouldn’t want him to bring up. _Especially_ since his own reaction to Ratchet’s Field mirrored a lot of Wing’s accidental sending.

_::Then that’s why.::_ Wing’s tone was mostly neutral, although there was relief and gratitude that Drift didn’t quite understand.

_::Are you sure about this?::_ Drift asked, completely unbalanced by the situation as he struggled to tidy himself up. _::Even if we’re gonna be helm-to-pede like unfriendly sparklings I don’t want to do this if you’re not 100% fine with it::_

Lurking partly-acknowledged in his processors was the thought that Ratchet might be only partly awake and running more on deeper code than conscious decision-making. In the morning Ratchet could very well regret making this offer; and given how just many Autobot Sparks Drift was personally responsible for extinguishing he wouldn’t exactly blame him for it, either.

_::Please, love? I’d feel a lot better if I knew you weren’t by yourself::_ Wing’s words were full of badly-controlled worry. _:: That was a bad one and I’d rather know you had someone near right now instead of sitting by yourself and stewing all night::_

He knew that tone. Right now Wing would be crouched on the hotel berth, armour rippling and flightpanels half-extended. Possibly also distractedly throttling a pillow since there wasn’t anyone around for the very tactile mech to grab onto. Sighing, Drift gave in and followed his mate’s advice.

If only to make sure that Wing didn’t accidentally murder every single pillow in the hotel out of sheer worry.

_::Alright::_

With a wave of love and reassurance they both took a mental step back, narrowing their contact. This finally forced Drift to stop delaying. A final glance over his frame revealed no more bits for Drift to remove, and if he could see it then Ratchet could too. With a final short blast of air out through his vents he followed behind Ratchet for the extremely short trip to the Incubator’s room. He resolutely kept his optics focused on Ratchet’s backplates, admiring the healthy sheen of his enamel layer and mentally comparing the Incubator to how he’d looked when they’d first run into him in the marketplace.

_He’s looking so much better than he did; and I_ know _he’s still not exactly 100% now. Primus, how_ could _they let their CMO work himself into that state?_

Drift was so lost in thought that he barely noticed that they had stopped and were standing beside Ratchet’s nest.

“I’m _not_ getting into an argument over who’s recharging closest to the door.” Ratchet grumbled, surprising Drift by flopping into his nest and settled comfortably on his belly, helm pillowed on his arms and pedes facing towards the door.

_What? But I thought…_

He’d assumed Ratchet would insist on putting himself between Drift and the door. It was what Shockwave had done, what Wing had explained was normal.

_Incubators_ defend _their nest; they don’t leave_ anyone _between them and a potential threat._

“I’m not gonna bite, kid.” Ratchet said, twisting his helm around to look at Drift from the corner of an optic and extending a reassuring Field filled with his familiar Incubator harmonics. “Park your aft in here and at least _pretend_ to sleep, would you?”

“Yes, _Mother_.” Drift muttered sarcastically in English to cover his embarrassment as he carefully crawled over the side of the nest to join the Incubator.

Ratchet smirked and raised an optical ridge at Drift’s tone but didn’t comment, letting the Ovaria make himself comfortable.

In a proper nest and surrounded by the fuzz of Ratchet’s soothingly familiar EMF it was surprisingly easy for Drift to slip back into old habits. As he used to do with Shockwave, he pulled his spare thermal cover from subspace and wrapped it securely around himself to keep the heat in and contain any flailing from nightmares if he did somehow manage to recharge again. That done, Drift curled up on his side with his backplates against Ratchet’s warm bulk. It wasn’t _quite_ the way he and Shockwave used to guard each other’s backs, but it was close enough.

Beside him Ratchet twitched, surprise flitting through his Field and vanishing. Drift cycled his vents, drawing in the rich mineral scent of the mech who’d built this nest and forcing himself to relax. It was a comfortingly familiar situation, although there were enough differences that his Spark ached unexpectedly for the Incubator who had once been his mentor. Not for the first time since the Greatswords had demanded they leave New Crystal City, Drift found himself wondering how Shockwave was doing.

_I know he was getting frustrated with how long the war was dragging on, too. Heh, I wonder what Turmoil told him about me going AWOL?_

“’Night kid.” Ratchet mumbled, sounding as if he was already more than half-asleep.

“Peaceful recharge, Ratchet.” Drift replied automatically.

_I don’t think I’ve really talked to him about Shockwave at all. I probably should; Ratchet seems like he’ll be able to help fill in what Shock and Wing haven’t been able to tell me…_

Drift forced himself to relax, sending reassurance and love to Wing. The wave of relief and love he received in return banished the lingering tension and fear of his nightmare. Between one thought and the next recharge pounced on the exhausted speedster and dragged him away from consciousness.

When Drift awoke later it was to a dim room and the awareness of something having moved, the movement having woken him. Something warm shifting under his helm and against his pauldron. As had happened before, Ratchet’s sleeping Field was meshed deeply with his. So far as he could tell the older Syngnath was in deep recharge, perfectly calm with no hint of alarm that might have woken Drift.

_What woke me up?_

The warm thing under Drift’s helm moved again and suddenly his neck shifted to a more comfortable angle, easing strain on his neck cables that he hadn’t been aware of. As more information was parsed by his sluggish, half-drowsy programs Drift slowly became aware that he was still lying on his side, no longer oriented the same way he had been when he started recharge. Ratchet’s warm frame was no longer at his back; along with the strongest part of Ratchet’s EMF it now seemed to be somewhere around Drift’s helm.

_Oh_.

Somehow they’d shifted around so that Drift was facing the door, oriented the right way to defend the Incubator if unfriendly beings entered. Ratchet had rolled over and was now lying on his back at right angles to Drift. It had been Ratchet’s arm slowly shifting out from under Drift’s helm that had woken him.

Now Drift’s helm was resting on Ratchet’s midsection, on the pleated abdominal armour between glass chestplate and red pelvic housing that Drift had spent far too much time admiring to be entirely comfortable with having his face so close to it. At some point one of Drift’s arms had escaped the blanket cocoon and draped itself loosely across Ratchet’s waist, leaving his fingers perilously close to a wide gap between red and white plating. It would be so easy to hook his fingertips over the smooth edge, getting a secure and comfortable grip the same way he would with Wing so his mate didn’t wiggle around too much.

_I_ could _just… But what if he woke up?_

Automatically, Drift reached for the Bond but Wing was deep in meditation. Besides, Drift already had a fairly good idea of what his mate would say.

_Sometimes Wing’s advice can be as dodgy as Swindle..._

Drift decided to stay as he was; the unexpected sleeping position was more than comfy enough for him. He lay awake, hardly daring to move as he listened to the soft whistling of Ratchet’s vents as the Incubator recharged. The sound made him smile into the darkness of the berthroom.

_CMO Hatchet whistles in his sleep. Who would have thought?_

After a while the sound started grating on Drift’s nerves but he didn’t want to turn his audials down in case he missed something. He wasn’t sure what it was exactly that he might miss, but a lifetime of almost paranoid caution made him reluctant to lose any advance warning of someone sneaking up on them.

_It’s actually kinda loud. How the slag did I sleep through that, last time?_

He was more than half asleep again when his hand moved against his conscious will, fingertips brushing shyly at the join of white and red plating, fitting comfortably into place. Sighing, Drift dropped right into deep recharge accompanied by a feeling of security as Ratchet’s rich mineral scent filled his chemoreceptors. Something warm and heavy came to rest on his pauldron, keeping his nightmares at bay for the rest of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ratchet put his hand on Drift's shoulder and they both had good sleeps. _I'm going to eat a fuckin toaster._  
>  -Drift's chest-size contest was a pretty risque suggestion, even though he didn't realise it.  
> -Drift just woke up from a dream where he killed Wing for access to Ratchet, so his mind was sorta fixed on that until Wing reminded him to check Ratchet's Field for flirty-vibes.  
> -AHAHAAHA LAST TIME HE HAD ADULT CODE SETTING UP BUT NOW HE HAS TO SUFFER THE SLEEPY WHISTLES. SUFFERRRRR  
> -ovaria!Drift gets cuddly in his sleep because he's subconsciously terrified of being alone again like when he was a sparkling. If he's grabbed onto them they can't get away without waking him up so he can fight off danger or follow where they're going
> 
>  
> 
> **IMPORTANT THINGIE:**  
>  In slightly less than a month I'm hopping on a plane and heading to the land of Freedom and Pumpkin Spice (the USA) for 4 weeks of nerding and touristing and losing my shit over actually getting to hug some of you bastards for reals omfg *flails*  
> Ahem.  
> Sooooo I can't guarantee any updates on this fic over the next 2 months or even that I'll have rebuilt some sort of chapter buffer when I thump back down in KiwiLand in mid-November. I'll give buffer-building a shot since I've got roughly a day in the air each way but I'll probably end up playing tetris so yeah ^.^;

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know if this needs any extra tags. I've probably missed some things.
> 
> My headcanons for the Syngnathi can be found under the '[Syngnath Headcanons](http://adhesivesandscrap.tumblr.com/tagged/syngnath-headcanons)' tag on my tumblr.


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